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THK  YOUN<;  MOTHER. 


THE 


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MOTHER'S    RULE; 


OK, 


gtg^t  ®tan  anb  f  jre  Mrang 


EDITED  BY 


T.     S.     ARTHUR, 


PHILADELPHIA : 

HUBBARD  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

1888. 


Copyrighted  by 
HUBBARD  BROTHERS. 

1888. 


PREFACE. 


As  the  mother's  rule  at  home  is,  so,  in  a  large 
measure,  will  be  the  characters  of  her  children. 
By  the  mother  is  determined  the  future  of  her 
offspring.  She  may  bend  their  natural  impulses 
to  good,  or  permit  young  life,  in  its  first  eagor 
activities,  to  take  on  evil  forms  that  will  forever 
after  mar  the  beautiful  aspects  of  humanity.  How 
vastly  important  is  it,  then,  for  mothers  to  have 
a  higher  regard  for  their  duties — to  feel  deeply 
the  immense  responsibilities  that  rest  upon  them  ! 
It  is  through  their  ministrations  that  the  world 
grows  worse  or  better. 

True  words,  fitly  spoken,  have  often  a  wonder 
ful  power  for  good.  Many  doubting,  desponding, 


W  PREFACE. 

or  listless  ones  have  been  suddenly  awakened  to 
vigorous  activity  in  the  right  direction,  by  a  single 
vivid  illustration  of  truth,  and  the  good  fruit, 
springing  up  in  due  time,  has  been  seen  of  all 
men.  True  words  for  mothers,  under  various 
forms  of  narrative,  poetry,  and  earnest  teaching, 
have  we  gathered  together  in  this  volume,  which 
is  now  sent  forth  to  do  its  work.  The  good  seed 
we  are  sure  will  nnd  good  ground,  and  ripe  fruit 
appear  in  after  time. 


CONTENTS. 


BK  PATIENT  WITH  CHILDREN Pa«re  7 

GOVERNING  CHILDRKK 13 

DISCIPLINE 20 

MY  STEP-MOTHER 23 

A  MOTHER'S  EYES .  34 

WHERE  is  HEAVEN? 35 

.A  CHAPTER  ON  TEASING 40 

CHILDHOOD .  45 

MAY  BE  so 47 

ARE  YOU  A  PARENT? 53 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  AND  CHRISTMAS  MATINS         .  .         .55 

MANAGING  CHILDREN 73 

THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE 76 

BE  CAREFUL  HOW  YOU  TREAT  CHILDREN           ....  98 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY 100 

I  DREAMED  OF  MY  MOTHER 123 

MOTHERS,  DO  YOU  SYMPATHIZE  WITH  TOUR  CHILDREN?   .         .126 

PASSING  THROUGH  THE  FIRE 132 

FITS  OF  OBSTINACY 158 

THE  SENSITIVE  MOTHER 1GI 

THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 179 

MRS.   HALE'S  Two  VISITS 180 

MANAGEMENT  OF  CHILDREN 167 

THE  BRIGHT  SIDE 193 

A  WORD  TO  PARENTS 198 


VI  CONTENTS. 

HOUSEHOLD  Music  .         ...        .        .         .         .     -   .  201 

LOVE'S  YEARNING 204 

DEAL  GENTLY  WITH  THK  TIMID  CHILD 212 

Two  IN  HEAVEN 214 

THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON 215 

MOTHER 218 

THE  KEY  TO  THE  HEART 221 

"  LITTLE  THINGS" 222 

THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEI 226 

A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD 234 

DISCRIMINATION  WITH  RESPECT  TO  CHILDREN  ....  248 

HOME  ECONOMY        .........  255 

YOUNG  MOTHER 263 

HOW  TO  MAKE  BOYS  LOVE  HOME 205 

HAPPY  AT  HOME 268 

OUR  OLD  GRANDMOTHER 269 

GOVERNMENT  OF  CHILDREN 275 

SPECIAL  EDUCATION 277 

FAULT-FINDING .  280 

THE  PKCUNIARY  INDEPENDENCE  .OF  CHILDREN          .        .         .  286 

EXCITING  IMAGINARY  FEARS 287 

-CHILD-TALK 290 

TEACH  YOUR  CHILDREN  FROM  THE  BIBLK         ....  293 

PUNISHMENT 296 

THOUGHTS  FOR  MOTHERS 298 

HEALTH  OF  CHILDREN      ........  299 


THE  MOTHER'S  RULE. 


BE  PATIENT  WITH  CHILDREN. 

"  YE  HAVE  NEED  OF  PATIENCE  !"  Nothing  can  be  more 
true  than  this,  and  nothing  is  more  applicable  to  those 
who  have  to  do  with  boys  and  girls.  There  are  so  many 
provocations  which  demand  endurance,  so  many  faults 
which  require  correction,  so  much  carelessness  which 
provokes  rebuke,  and  so  much  perverseness  which  calls 
for  firmness  and  control,  that  "teachers  of  babes,"  if 
not  of  a  temper  absolutely  angelic,  need  to  have  "  line 
upon  line — line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept — pre 
cept  upon  precept,"  to  aid  in  the  work  which  has  fallen 
to  their  lot. 

There  are  so  many  temptations  and  accessories  to 
impatience,  too.  It  is  so  easy  and  so  natural  for  the 
strong  to  tyrannize  over  the  weak  !  Absolute  power  is 
too  frequently  abused ;  and  the  power  which  a  parent  or 
a  teacher  exercises  over  the  child,  is  so  far  absolute  that 

(7) 


8  BE  PATIENT  WITH  CHILDREN. 

immediate  resistance  can  be  rendered  unavailing.  True, 
the  parent  has  parental  tenderness  and  love  to  restrain 
the  impetuosity  of  impatience,  but  the  teacher  has  not ; 
and  if  parents  are  often,  in  spite  of  natural  barriers, 
imnetuous,  "what  wonder  that  teachers  are  so  too. 

It  is  less  trouble,  so  far  as  the  present  time  is  con 
cerned,  to  blame  and  scold,  and  punish  a  child  for  negli 
gence,  stupidity,  or  misconduct,  than  to  explain,  reason, 
and  instruct.  It  takes  less  time  to  box  a  boy's  ears  for 
being  mischievous,  or  to  push  a  girl  into  a  bedroom 
"  all  by  herself,"  for  being  idle,  or  talkative,  or  trouble- 
Borne,  than  it  does  to  investigate  intentions  and  motives, 
or  to  inquire  into  causes ;  and  we  do  not  wonder  that 
the  patience  of  the  most  patient  sometimes  gives  way. 
But  it  is  not  the  less  to  be  deplored  when  it  does  give 
way.  In  one  hour — in  less  time  than  this — in  one 
minute,  evil  may  be  wrought  which  will  undo  the  work 
of  months,  or  which  years  of  judicious  treatment  will 
not  obliterate. 

Do  we  say,  then,  that  children  should  be  indulged  and 
pampered,  and  their  faults  overlooked  ?  No  ;  this  again 
seems  easier  to  the  indulgent  and  self-indulgent  teacher 
than  the  wearying  work  of  constant  watchfulness  and 
wise  circumspection.  But  patience  is  as  much  required 
in  the  avoidance  of  false  indulgence,  as  in  the  banish 
ment  of  undue  or  injudicious  severity.  It  is  easier,  for 
the  moment,  to  yield  to  the  wishes  and  dispositions  of 
children,  than  to  oppose  or  regulate  them.  But  not 
withstanding  this,  "Patience"  should  "have  her  perfect 
work."  0  ye  teachers  of  the  young,  "ye  have  need  of 
patience." 


BE  PATIENT   WITH   CHILDREN.  9 

And  not  patience  only.  In  the  proper  exercise  of 
discipline,  discrimination  and  keen  perception  must  be 
united  with  it,  or  even  patience  will  fail.  Perhaps  no 
two  children  in  any  given  number  are  precisely  alike  in 
formation  of  mind,  disposition,  and  general  capacity. 
One  will  be  timid,  another  bold ;  one  sensitive,  another 
obtuse ;  one  quick,  another  slow.  In  different  things, 
and  at  different  times,  the  same  boy  or  girl  may  exhibit 
almost  contradictory  qualities,  and  yet  there  shall  be 
nothing  in  all  this  that  ought  to  be  construed  into  a 
fault,  or  that  should  call  for  even  a  rebuke.  Patience 
here  will  be  lost  in  a  maze,  to  which  discrimination  alone 
can  furnish  the  clue.  And  that  not  always,  for  we  have 
trie  word  of  inspiration  to  assure  us  that  "  the  heart  is 
deceitful  above  all  things ;"  but  in  general,  perhaps,  the 
heart  of  a  child  may  be  pretty  correctly  read  by  those 
who  do  not,  idly  or  contemptuously,  neglect  its  study. 

At  all  events,  it  is  better  to  be  credulous  than  incredu 
lous — better  that  a  child  should  ten  times  escape  the 
just,  punishment  of  a  fault  through  an  excess  of  patience, 
than  be  once  unjustly  punished  through  want  of  discrimi 
nation.  The  memory  of  the  injustice  will  rankle  in  the 
so-il,  and  produce  worse  fruits  there,  tenfold,  in  after 
y^ars,  than  will  spring  from  the  consciousness  of  having 
committed  faults  innumerable  with  impunity. 

Teachers  or  parents  never  will  or  can  deal  wisely  with 
a  child,  unless  they  dispense  with  impulse,  and  scruti 
nise,  in  every  possible  way,  what  appears  worthy  of 
condemnation  ;  and  the  best  way  to  follow  out  this  scru 
tiny  is  mentally  to  change  places  with  the  offender — i< 
be  a  child  again — to  divest  one's  self  of  all  but  a  childisl 


0  BE   PATIENT   V/ITH   CHILDREN. 

judgment  and  capacity — to  throw  back  one's  self  upon 
•zhildish  views  and  feelings — and  to  submit  to  be  guided 
by  childish  reasonings ;  and  then,  after  all,  if  there  be  a 
doubt,  to  give  the  child  the  benefit  of  that  doubt. 

But,  0,  what  a  deal  of  trouble  is  all  this ! 

Very  well,  ,  we  are  not  thinking  about  your 

trouble,  but  about  the  child's  good.  Though,  as  to  trouble, 
the  best  way  of  doing  anything  is  the  least  troublesome 
way  in  the  end.  But  by  trouble  you  mean  pains-taking, 
time,  and  attention,  and  regard  to  the  ultimate  object. 
Now,  can  anything  in  the  world,  worth  doing,  be  well 
and  properly  accomplished  without  these  ?  Can  a  pud 
ding  be  made,  or  a  pig  be  fed,  or  a  heard  be  shaven 
without  these  ? 

Trouble  !  Shame  upon  those  who,  under  the  selfish, 
but  vain  plea  of  saving  themselves  trouble  —  present 
trouble — make  trouble  for  others  in  after  years  !  Let 
them  do  anything,  be  anything,  rather  than  teachers  of 
the  young. 

This  is  an  inexhaustible  subject — the  right  training 
of  children ;  we  have  written  about  it  before,  and  we 
may  have  occasion  to  revert  to  it  again  and  again. 
Meanwhile,  as  illustrative  of  the  foregoing  remarks,  we 
quote  an  instructive  passage  from  a  work  on  "  Private 
Education." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  stupid  ?"  said  a  governess  to  her 
pupil;  "why  do  you  not  do  your  sum  properly?  It  is 
very  easy,  and  you  don't  try  to  do  it  well." 

"  My  sum  was  right  at  first,  and  now  I  have  done  it 
ever  so  many  times,  I  really  cannot  understand  it," 
replied  the  child. 


BE   PATIENT   WITH   CHILDREN.  11 

"I  shall  make  you  finish  it,"  said  the  governess; 
"  and  not  allow  you  to  have  any  recreation  till  it  ia 
correct." 

The  child  burst  into  tears,  saying  she  did  not  know 
how  jt  was,  but  she  felt  so  stupid.  She,  however,  sat 
down,  and  once  more  began  the  sum ;  but,  this  time, 
every  figure  was  wrong. 

The  governess  grew  very  angry,  and  said  the  naughty 
girl  should  not  only  begin  it  again,  but  do  two  more  as 
a  punishment  for  such  obstinacy. 

The  child  made  another  attempt,  and  was  desired  to 
do  it  aloud. 

"  Four  farthings  make  a  shilling,"  said  the  child. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  governess;  "four  farthings 
make  a  shilling  !  How  dare  you  be  so  stupid  ?  You  do 
it  on  purpose.  I  shall  certainly  complain  to  your 
mamma." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,"  sobbed  the  child,  "  I  will  try  to  do 
it  properly ;  I  see  I  am  wrong,  very  wrong ;  I  mean  to 
say,  twelve  farthings  make  a  penny." 

The  governess  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  she  rose,  and 
was  about  to  threaten  some  severe  punishment,  when  the 
mother  entered  the  room,  and,  seeing  the  child  in  tears, 
Raid, 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  little  Emma?  Seven 
o'clock,  and  lessons  not  finished !  I  am  going  to  dinner, 
and  you  will  not  be  ready  for  dessert." 

u  I  am  not  to  go  down  stairs  this  evening,"  replied 
the  weeping  child ;  "  I  cannot  do  my  sum." 

The  governess,  till  then  silent,  confirmed  this — "  I 
cannot  allow  Miss  Emma  any  recreation,"  she  said  ;  and 


12  BE   PATIENT   WITH   CHILDREN. 

drawing  out  her  watch,  added,  "it  is  now  seven  o'clock , 
she  has  been  five  hours  with  a  slate  in  her  hand,  and  haa 
not  yet  done  her  sum.  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  is  very 
obstinate,  and  persists  in  asserting  that  four  farthings 
make  a  shilling,  and  that  twelve  farthings  make  a 
penny  !" 

The  child  stared  vacantly,  and  did  not  contradict  her 
governess,  but  looked  as  if  not  conscious  of  the  mistake 
she  had  made.  The  mother,  evidently  suffering  at  see 
ing  her  child's  swollen  eyes,  and  convinced  of  the  mis 
management,  merely  said, 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find  Emma  has  given  cause  for  dis 
pleasure,  and  beg  she  may  be  sent  to  bed  immediately  ; 
to-morrow,  I  trust,  she  will  endeavour  to  be  more  atten 
tive." 

The  child  obeyed,  sobbing,   "  Good-night,  mamma." 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Mrs.  Y.,  an  excellent  and 
judicious  parent,  pointed  out,  in  gentle  language,  the 
error  committed : — 

"  You  will  probably  think,  Miss  IT.,  that  a  mother's 
feelings  mislead  me ;  but  I  must  candidly  say,  I  do  not 
think  Emma  has  been  so  much  to  blame.  You  have 
shown  ill-judged  severity  in  keeping  her  so  long  at  the 
same  lesson.  I  give  you  credit  for  your  good  intentions, 
but  believe  me  you  are  mistaken.  The  attention,  fixed 
for  such  a  length  of  time,  loses  its  power ;  and  I  am 
persuaded  that  Emma  will  do  her  sum  right  to-morrow 
morning,  provided  no  threats  are  made  ;  but  if  her 
thoughts  be  occupied  with  the  punishment  she  has  to 
dread,  it  is  not  probable  she  can  give  undivided'  atten 
tion  to  any  study,  much  less  to  arithmetic,  which  admits 


GOVERNING    CHILDREN.  !3 

of  no  error.  I  do  not  think  Emma  deserved  to  be  pun 
ished  ;  she  had  no  power  of  doing  better.  It  is  evident, 
from  her  saying  that  four  farthings  make  a  shilling,  and 
twelve  farthings  make  a  penny,  that  she  was  much  puz 
zled  ;  and  I  beg  that  another  time,  under  similar  circum 
stances,  she  may  be  made  to  leave  off  her  lesson.  When 
I  sent  her  to  bed,  and  appeared  displeased,  it  was  to 
uphold  your  authority  ;  I  should  not  have  had  the  cour 
age  to  inflict  any  other  punishment ;  but  the  child  was 
so  fatigued  I  thought  it  could  do  her  no  harm,  and  hope 
she  is  already  asleep,  as  I  fear  she  has  been  over-ex 
erted." 

The  governess  made  no  reply ;  she  felt  the  truth  of 
the  observations,  and  was  grateful  for  the  manner  in 
which  they  had  been  conveyed. 

The  following  morning  the  little  girl,  refreshed  by 
sleep,  and  recovering  the  use  of  her  faculties,  did  her 
sum  without  a  single  mistake,  and  begged,  as  a  reward, 
that  she  might  be  allowed  to  go  and  show  it  to  her 
mamma. 


GOVERNING  CHILDREN. 

"I'LL  not  live  in  this  way!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lyon, 
passionately.  "  Such  disorder,  wrangling,  and  irregu 
larity,  rob  me  of  all  peace ;  and  make  the  house  a  bed 
lam,  instead  of  a  quiet  home.  Tom !" — she  spoke 
sharply  to  a  bright  little  fellow,  who  was  pounding  away 
with  a  wooden  hammer  on  a  chair,  and  making  a  most 


14  GOVERNING    CHILDREN. 

intolerable  Jin  ; — "  stop  that  noise,  this  instant !  And 
you.  Em',  not  a  word  more  from  your  lips.  If  you 
can't  live  in  peace  with  your  sister,  Til  separate  you. 
D'ye  hear  !  Hush,  this  instant !" 

"  Then  make  Jule  give  me  my  pincushion.  She's  got 
it  in  her  pocket." 

"It's  no  such  thing;  I  haven't,"  retorted  Julia. 

"  You  have,  I  say." 

"  I  tell  you  I  haven't !" 

"  Will  you  hush  ?"  The  face  of  Mrs.  Lyon  was  fiery 
red ;  and  she  stamped  upon  the  floor,  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  want  my  pincushion.  Make  Jule  give  me  my 
pincushion." 

Irritated,  beyond  control,  Mrs.  Lyon  caught  Julia  by 
the  arm ;  and  thrusting  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  drew 
out  a  thimble,  a  piece  of  lace,  and  a  penknife. 

"  I  told  you  it  wasn't  there !  Couldn't  you  believe 
me?" 

This  impertinence  was  more  than  the  mother  could 
endure ;  and,  acting  from  her  indignant  impulses,  she 
boxed  the  ears  of  Julia,  soundly.  Conscious,  at  the 
same  time,  that  Emily  was  chiefly  to  blame  for  all  this 
trouble,  by  a  wrong  accusation  of  her  sister ;  she  turned 
upon  her,  also,  administering  an  equal  punishment. 
Frightened  by  all  this,  the  younger  children,  whose 
incessant  noise,  for  the  last  hour,  had  contributed  to  the 
overthrow  of  their  mother's  temper,  became  suddenly 
quiet,  and  skulked  away  into  corners — and  the  baby, 
that  was  seated  on  the  floor,  between  two  pillows,  curved 
her  quivering  lips,  and  glanced  fearfully  up  at  the  dis- 


GOVERNING    CHILDREN.  15 

torted  face  in  winch  she  had  been  used  to  see  the  love- 
light  that  made  her  heaven. 

A  deep  quiet  followed  this  burst  of  passion ;  like  the 
hush  which  succeeds  the  storm.  Alas,  for  the  evil  traces 
that  were  left  behind  !  Alas,  for  the  repulsive  image 
of  that  mother,  daguerreotyed  in  an  instant,  on  the 
memory  of  her  children,  and  never  to  be  effaced  !  How 
many,  many  times,  in  after  years,  will  not  a  sigh  heave 
their  bosoms,  as  that  painful  reflection  looks  out  upon 
them  from  amid  the  dear  remembrances  of  childhood. 

A  woman  of  good  impulses,  but  with  scarcely  any 
self-control,  was  Mrs.  Lyon.  She  loved  her  children, 
,and  desired  their  good.  That  they  showed  so  little  for 
bearance  one  with  the  other,  manifested  so  little  frater 
nal  affection,  grieved  her  deeply. 

"My  whole  life  is  made  unhappy  by  it !"  she  would 
often  say.  "  What  is  to  be  done  ?  It  is  dreadful  to 
think  of  a  family  growing  up  in  discord  and  disunion. 
Sister  at  variance  with  sister;  and  brother  lifting  his 
hand  against  brother." 

As  was  usual  after  an  ebullition  of  passion,  Mrs. 
Lyon,  deeply  depressed  in  spirits,  as  well  as  discouraged, 
retired  from  her  family  to  grieve  and  weep.  Lifting  the 
frightened  baby  from  the  floor,  she  drew  its  head  ten 
derly  against  her  bosom ;  and,  leaving  the  nursery, 
sought  the  quiet  of  her  own  room.  There,  in  repent 
ance  and  humiliation,  she  recalled  the  stormy  scene 
through  which  she  had  just  passed ;  and  blamed  herself 
for  yielding  blindly  to  passion,  instead  of  meeting  tho 
trouble  among  her  children  with  a  quiet  discrimination. 

To  weeping,  calmness  succeeded.     Still  she  was  per- 


16  GOVERNING   CHILDREN. 

plexcd  in  mind,  as  well  as  grieved  at  her  own  want  of 
self-control.  What  was  to  be  done  with  her  children  ? 
How  were  they  to  be  governed  aright  ?  Painfully  did 
she  feel  her  own  unfitness  for  the  task.  By  this  time 
the  baby  was  asleep,  and  the  mother  felt  something  of 
that  tranquil  peace  that  every  true  mother  knows,  when 
a  young  babe  is  slumbering  on  her  bosom.  A  book  lay 
on  a  shelf,  near  where  she  was  sitting,  and  Mrs.  Lyon, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  act,  reached  out  her  hand  foi 
the  volume.  She  opened,  without  feeling  any  interest 
in  its  contents  ;  but  she  had  read  only  a  few  sentences, 
when  this  remark  arrested  her  attention. 

"  All  right  government  of  children  begins  with  self- 
government." 

The  words  seemed  written  for  her ;  and  the  truth 
expressed,  was  elevated  instantly  into  perception.  She 
saw  it  in  the  clearest  light ;  and  closed  the  book,  and 
bowed  her  head  in  sad  acknowledgment  of  her  own 
errors.  Thus,  for  some  time,  she  had  been  sitting,  when 
the  murmur  of  voices  from  below  grew  more  and  more 
distinct,  and  she  was  soon  aroused  to  the  painful  fact, 
that,  as  usual,  when  left  alone,  the  children  were  wrang 
ling  among  themselves.  Various  noises,  as  of  pounding 
on,  and  throwing  about  chairs,  and  other  pieces  of  fur 
niture,  were  heard ;  and,  at  length,  a  loud  scream,  min 
gled  with  angry  vociferations,  smote  upon  her  ears. 

Indignation  swelled  instantly  in  the  heart  of  Mrs 
Lyon  ;  hurriedly  placing  the  sleeping  babe  in  its  crib,  she 
started  for  the  scene  of  disorder,  moved  by  an  impulse 
to  punish  severely  the  young  rebels  against  all  authority  : 
and  was  half-way  down  the  stairs,  when  her  feet  were 


GOVERNING    CHILDREN.  17 

checked  by  a  remembrance  of  the  sentiment — '*  All  right 
government  of  children  begins  with  self-government." 

"  Will  anger  subdue  anger  ?  When  storm  rcu  eta 
storm,  is  the  tempest  stilled  ?"  These  were  the  questions 
asked  of  herself,  almost  involuntarily.  "  This  is  no 
spirit  in  which  to  meet  my  children.  It  never  has,  never 
will  enforce  order  and  obedience,"  she  added,  as  she 
stood  upon  the  stairs,  struggling  with  herself,  and  striving 
for  the  victory.  From  the  nursery  came  louder  sounds 
of  disorder.  How  weak  the  mother  felt !  Yet,  in  this 
very  weakness  was  strength. 

"  I  must  not  stand  idly  here,"  she  said,  as  a  sharper 
cry  of  anger  smote  her  ears  ;  and  so  she  moved  on 
quickly,  and  opening  the  nursery  door,  stood  revealed 
to  her  children.  Julia  had  just  raised  her  hand  to  strike 
Emily,  who  stood  confronting  her  with  a  fiery  face. 
Both  were  a  little  startled  at  their  mother's  sudden 
appearance ;  and  both,  expecting  the  storm  that  usually 
came  at  such  times,  began  to  assume  the  defiant,  stub 
born  air  with  which  her  intemperate  reproofs  were 
always  met. 

A  few  moments  did  Mrs.  Lyon  stand  looking  at  her 
children — grief,  not  anger  upon  her  pale  countenance. 
How  still  all  became !  What  a  look  of  wonder  came 
gradually  into  the  children's  faces,  as  they  glanced  one 
at  the  other!  Something  of  shame  was  next  visible. 
And  now,  the  mother  was  conscious  of  a  new  power  over 
the  young  rebels  of  her  household. 

"Emily,"  said  she,  speaking  mildly,  yet  with  a  touch 
of  sorrow  in  her  voice  that  she  could  not  subdue ;  "  J 
2 


18  GOVERNING   CHILDREN. 

wish  you  would  go  up  into  my  room,  and  sit  with  Mary 
while  she  sleeps." 

Without  a  sign  of  opposition,  or  even  reluctance,  Emily 
went  quietly  from  the  nursery,  in  obedience  to  her  mo 
ther's  desire. 

"  This  room  is  very  much  in  disorder,  Julia." 
Many  times  had  Mrs.  Lyon  said,  under  like  circum 
stances,  "  Why  don't  you  put  things  to  rights  ?"  or  "  I 
never  saw  such  girls  !  If  all  in  the  room  was  topsy 
turvey,  and  the  floor  an  inch  thick  with  dirt,  you'd  never 
turn  over  a  hand  to  put  things  in  order ;"  or,  "  Go  and 
get  the  broom,  this  minute,  and  sweep  up  the  room. 
You're  the  laziest  girl  that  ever  lived."  Many,  many 
times,  as  we  have  said,  had  such  language  been  addressed 
by  Mrs.  Lyon,  under  like  circumstances,  to  Julia  and 
her  sisters,  without  producing  anything  better  than  a 
grumbling,  partial  execution  of  her  wishes.  But  now, 
the  mild  intimation  that  the  room  was  in  disorder,  pro 
duced  all  the  effects  desired.  Julia  went  quickly  about 
the  work  of  restoring  things  to  their  right  places ;  and, 
in  a  little  while,  order  was  apparent  where  confusion 
reigned  before.  Little  Tommy,  whose  love  of  hammering 
was  an  incessant  annoyance  to  his  mother,  had  ceased 
his  din  on  her  sudden  appearance,  and,  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  stood  in  expectation  of  a  boxed  ear ;  for  a  time 
he  was  puzzled  to  understand  the  new  aspect  of  affairs. 
Finding  that  he  was  not  under  the  ban,  as  usual,  he 
commenced  slapping  a  stick  over  the  top  of  an  old  table, 
making  a  most  ear-piercing  noise.  Instantly  Julia  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  to  him, 


GOVERNING    CHILDREN.  19 

"  Don't,  Tommy, — don't  do  that.  You  know  it  makes 
mother's  head  ache." 

"Does  it  make  your  head  ache,  mother?"  asked  tho 
child,  curiously,  and  with  a  pitying  tone  in  his  voice,  as 
he  came  creeping  up  to  his  mother's  side,  and  looking  at 
her  as  if  in  doubt  whether  he  would  be  repulsed  or  not. 

"  Sometimes  it  does,  my  son,"  replied  Mrs.  Lyon, 
kindly  ;  "  and  it  is  always  unpleasant.  Won't  you  try 
to  play  without  making  so  much  noise?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I'll  try,"  answered  the  little  fellow, 
cheerfully.  "But  I'll  forget  sometimes." 

He  looked  earnestly  at  his  mother,  as  if  something 
more  was  in  his  thoughts. 

"  Well,  dear,  what  else  ?"  said  she  encouragingly. 

"  When  I  forget,  you'll  tell  me ;  won't  jou  I'" 

"Yes,  love." 

"And  then  I'll  stop.  But  don't  scoll  me,  mother; 
for  then  I  can't  stop." 

Mrs.  Lyon's  heart  was  touched.  Sae  caught  hei 
breath,  and  bent  her  face  down,  to  com  eal  its  expres 
sion,  until  it  rested  on  the  silken  hair  of  the  child. 

"  Be  a  good  boy,  Tommy,  and  mother  ,vill  never  scold 
you  any  more ;"  she  murmured  gently,  i  i  his  ears. 

His  arms  stole  upwards,  and  as  tiny  were  twined 
closely  about  her  neck,  he  pressed  his  lipj  tightly  against 
her  cheek — thus  sealing  his  part  of  the  contract  with  a 
kiss. 

How  sweet  to  the  mother's  taste  were  these  first  fruit? 
of  self-control !  In  the  effort  to  govern  herself,  what  a 
power  had  she  acquired  !  In  stilling  the  tempest  of 


IiU  DISCIPLINE. 

passion  in  her  own  bosom,  she  had  poured  the  oil  of 
peace  over  the  storm-fretted  hearts  of  her  children. 

Only  first  fruits  were  these.  In  all  her  after  days  did 
that  mother  strive  with  herself,  ere  she  entered  into  a 
contest  with  the  inherited  evils  of  her  children  ;  and 
just  so  far  as  she  was  able  to  overcome  evil  in  herself, 
was  she  able  to  overcome  evil  in  them.  Often,  very 
often,  did  she  fall  back  into  old  states ;  and  often,  very 
often,  was  self-resistance  only  a  light  effort ;  but  the 
feeble  influence  for  good  that  flowed  from  her  words  or 
actions,  whenever  this  was  so,  warned  her  of  error,  and 
prompted  a  more  vigorous  self-control.  Need  it  be  said, 
that  she  had  an  abundant  reward  ? 


DISCIPLINE. 

No  parent,  who  reads  the  following,  can  fail  to  be 
impressed  with  the  benefits  of  that  "  Discipline,"  the 
foundation  of  which  is  mildness,  gentleness,  and  love. 
Those  of  us  who  have  "little  Marys"  and  "little  bro 
thers,"  to  rear  up  for  usefulness,  may  take  a  hint  from 
this  finely-constructed  sketch,  and  go  and  do  likewise. 

Little  Mary  once  struck  her  brother  during  my  ab 
sence  from  the  house.  The  stick  in  her  hand  had  a 
sharp  knot,  which  went  clear  through  his  cheek,  making 
an  ugly  gash.  The  blood  flowed  in  a  stream,  the  boy 
screamed  piteously,  and  Mary  was  exceedingly  alarmed. 
She  had  no  animosity  against  her  little  playmate ;  on 
the  contrary,  she  loved  him  dearly,  und  when  her  mo- 


DISCIPLINE.  21 

ther,  who  was  called  to  the  room  by  his  screams,  came 
in,  her  little  daughter  had  thrown  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  and  was  joining  her  cries  to  his,  while  the  red 
blood  poured  full  in  her  face.  When  mother  had  made 
inquiries,  she  took  the  boy  away  to  dress  the  wound, 
arid  the  girl  went  up  stairs  without  a  word,  and  crept 
under  the  bed.  There  she  sat  and  sobbed  for  several 
hours.  Her  mother,  discovering  where  she  had  gone, 
said  not  a  word  to  her,  believing  that  it  was  best  to 
leave  her  for  the  present  alone.  Her  own  heart  was 
much  pained  to  hear  her  dear  child's  grief,  but  she  was 
willing  to  let  her  suffer  for  a  while,  in  hopes  that  it  might 
be  made  a  lasting  lesson  to  her. 

I  came  in  a  little  while  before  night,  and  learned  how 
matters  stood.  It  was  a  season  to  me  of  great  interest 
and  responsibility.  Upon  my  own  action  here  might 
depend  the  future  conduct  of  this  child.  Her  violent 
temper  had  been  often  checked  by  punishment,  and  she 
had  been  frequently  enough  told  of  its  evil  consequences. 
Now  it  had  led  her  to  a  great  crime,  and  if  not  at  once 
restrained,  my  little  daughter  might  grow  up  wicked  and 
miserable. 

I  considered  awhile  how  I  should  act,  and  having 
humbly  asked  guidance  of  the  Father  of  all,  I  took  my 
seat  in  the  room  where  the  affair  had  happened,  and 
took  the  knotty  stick  in  my  hand.  Then  I  called  out 
in  a  kind  voice,  "Sister,  come  here  to  pa."  She  was 
always  an  obedient  girl,  and  she  instantly  crept  out  and 
came  down  to  me.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression 
of  her  countenance  as  she  looked  in  my  face.  She  had 
wept  until  her  eyes  were  greatly  inflamed,  but  they  were 


212  DISCIPLINE. 

dry,  and  in  her  face  was  a  look  of  the  most  profound 
humility  and  grief  that  I  ever  saw.  She  walked  slowly 
to  my  side  and  bowed  her  head  on  my  knees.  I  said, 
"  My  daughter,  some  naughty  person  has  hurt  your  little 
brother  very  much.  His  cheek  is  cut  open,  and  I  think 
there  will  always  be  a  scar  there  as  long  as  he  lives. 
Will  my  daughter  tell  me  who  did  it?"  I  heard  a  little 
sob,  and  then  she  whispered,  "  It  was  me."  I  continued, 
"  If  the  stick  had  struck  his  eye,  he  would  have  been 
made  blind."  She  commenced  weeping.  I  said,  "If 
it  had  struck  his  temple,  it  might  have  killed  him." 
She  gave  a  low  scream,  and  said,  "  0,  pa  !"  I  continued, 
"  Yes  :  the  blow  you  struck  would  have  killed  your  bro 
ther  if  some  one  had  not  turned  it  aside.  There  was 
some  one  in  the  room  who  saw  how  angry  my  daughter 
was,  and  when  she  struck  the  sharp  knotty  stick  into 
her  brother's  face,  he  turned  it  aside,  and  saved  his  life. 
Do  you  know  who  it  was?"  She  looked  up  into  my 
face  with  a  look  of  almost  happiness,  and  said,  "  It  wag 
God,  pa."  "Yes,"  I  continued,  "no  one  but  God  could 
have  done  it.  He  has  saved  my  boy's  life,  but  how 
sorry  He  must  be  that  any  little  girl  can  have  so  bad 
a  heart  as  you  have !  God  never  can  love  the  bad  girl 
in  this  world  or  in  the  next." 

She  wept  now  more  bitterly  than  before.  I  took  her 
han  1,  and  led  her  into  the  room  where  her  brother  lay 
asleep.  His  face  was  bound  up,  and  it  was  very  pale. 

I  asked  her  softly,  "  Is  little  brother  alive  yet  ?"  Sho 
started  as  if  smitten  with  a  horrible  thought,  and  uttered 
an  ejaculation  of  grief.  This  awoke  the  boy,  who,  cast 
ing  his  eyes  about,  and  seeing  Mary  bathed  in  tears, 


MY  STEP-MOTIIER.  23 

reached  out  his  arras  and  called  her.  It  was  electric, 
and  hardened  must  have  been  the  heart  which  could  be 
hold  this  sweet  reconciliation  without  tears. 

That  night,  as  we  bowed  around  the  sacred  altar  of 
family  service,  tender  hearts  were  ours,  and  the  angels 
who  watched  to  carry  our  offerings  upward,  saw  the 
tear-drops  glittering  in  the  fire-light,  and  heard  low  sobs 
as  we  united  to  ask  the  seal  of  God's  approbation  upon 
this  reconciliation  on  earth. 


MY   STEP-MOTHER. 

"  WHY,  Annie  !  child,  you  have  been  a  long  time 
away — who  have  you  with  you  ?  I  was  becoming  alarm 
ed  at  your  long  stay." 

"  It  is  Jane  Benson,  mother,"  was  the  reply,  as  Annie 
hurried  across  the  room,  still  holding  Jane's  hand.  "  Oh, 
mother,  Mr.  Benson  is  going  to  be  married,  and  Jane's 
heart  is  almost  broken.  To  have  a  hateful  step-mother ! 
Oh,  mother,  is  it  not  a  pity?" 

Mrs.  Carleton  raised  herself  from  the  sofa,  and  draw 
ing  Jane,  who  was  sobbing,  to  her,  she  made  her  sit 
down  beside  her,  and  then  said, 

"  Is  this  really  true,  Jane  ?  Perhaps  you  may  be 
mistaken." 

"  No,  ma'am  !  Father  told  us  yesterday,  himself.  I 
do  wish  I  was  dead — I  am  sure  I  shall  never  like  her," 
added  she,  sobbing  bitterly.  Mrs.  Carleton  soothed  her. 


24  MY   STEP-MOTHER. 

and  then  asked  if  she  knew  the  name  of  the  lady  ?  Jane 
told  it,  but  Mrs.  Carleton  had  never  heard  it  before. 

"  But,  mother,  don't  you  pity  Jane  ?  Ought  not  Mr. 
Benson  to  be  ashamed  to  marry  again?"  demanded 
Annie. 

"  Why,  no  !"  said  Mrs.  Carleton.  "  Mr.  Benson  has 
undoubtedly  a  right  to  marry  again,  and  perhaps  Jane 
may,  some  of  these  days,  be  very  thankful  that  he  has 
done  so.  It  all  depends  on  the  person  whom  he  marries. 
If  she  is  kind  and  good,  I  shall  congratulate  Jane  with 
my  whole  heart,  instead  of  being  grieved  for  her." 

"  Kind  and  good  !"  echoed  Annie  ;  "  why  I  thought  all 
step-mothers  were  cross  and  hateful." 

"  Did  you,  Annie  ?  I  suspect  you  did  not  think  much 
about  it ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  hear  my  daughter  speak  so 
harshly ;  especially  as  I  owe  to  my  step-mother  what 
ever  is  amiable  in  my  character." 

"  Yours,  dear  mother  ?  Had  you  a  step-mother  ?  Is 
not  grandma  your  own  mother?" 

"  I  could  not  possibly  have  loved  my  own  mother 
more  ;  and  yet  she  certainly  is  one  of  the  race  you 
choose  to  call  cross  and  hateful.  Could  I  have  supposed, 
for  an  instant,  that  you  indulged  in  such  violent  preju 
dices,  I  would  have  tried  to  remove  them  before,  but  I 
will  now  tell  you  how  mine  were  overcome,  for  I  must 
begin  by  confessing  that  I  had  them  to  as  great  an  ex 
tent  as  yourself.  It  may  be  of  service  to  Jane,  too." 

"  Please  stop,  mother,  until  I  bring  a  cushion  to  sit 
on ;"  which  being  done,  Annie  seated  herself  on  the 
floor  at  her  mother's  feet,  and  Jane  sliding  down  beside 
her,  they  watched  Mrs.  Carleton's  face  with  extreme 


MY    STEP-MOTHER.  25 

interest.  Aitcr  a  slight  pause,  as  if  to  consider,  she 
began  : — 

"  My  mother  died  when  my  brother  Frank  was  thir 
teen  years  old.  I  was  eleven  ;  and  then  came  the  little 
Ellen,  everybody's  pet,  who  was  about  three  years  old. 
AVe  were  all  that  was  left  of  a  large  family.  My  mo 
ther,  some  years  before  her  death,  secured  the  service* 
of  a  distant  connexion,  who  acted  as  a  sort  of  house 
keeper,  and  who  went  by  the  name  of  '  Cousin  Sally.' 
As  a  housekeeper,  she  was  invaluable ;  nothing  was 
wasted  ;  the  house  was  in  perfect  order ;  our  clothes 
were  attended  to,  and  my  mother  seemed  to  think  she 
was  highly  favoured  in  securing,  at  any  price,  such  a 
pattern  of  housekeepers. 

"  It  was  more  than  two  years  after  the  death  of  my 
mother,  that  our  household  was  thrown  in  a  great  conster 
nation  by  the  arrival  of  two  letters  from  my  father  to 
Cousin  Sally  and  Frank,  stating  that  he  would  be  mar 
ried  in  a  week,  and  in  a  few  more  bring  home  Iris  bride. 
Frank's  letter  was  kindness  itself,  and  it  begged  him  to 
reconcile  me  to  what  was  now  inevitable,  and  to  endea 
vour  to  remove  prejudices  from  my  mind  that  could  only 
last  until  we  were  mutually  acquainted.  The  one  to 
Cousin  Sally  contained  a  wish  that  slie  should  retain  the 
same  situation,  but  if  it  was  disagreeable  to  her,  an  offer 
of  a  year's  salary  in  consideration  of  her  kindness  to 
us.  To  have  heard  Cousin  Sally,  a  stranger  would  have 
thought  that  she  had  intended  filling  my  mother's  place 
herself,  but  such  was  not  the  case.  In  her  opinion  we 
wore  getting  along  very  quietly,  and  now  a  stranger  was 


26  MY    STEP-MOTHER. 

ccrj-ing  tc  make  us  all  uncomfortable  She  would  break 
out  with — 

"  '  She  (the  bride)  could  not  be  any  great  things,  to 
come  in  that  way  into  a  man's  house  and  turn  all  things 
upside  down, — she  only  wondered  where  some  people 
got  their  assurance ;  she  knew  that  she  must  be  a  bold 
and  forward  piece,  for  Mr.  Ross  would  never  have 
thought  of  marrying,  if  some  one  had  not  put  it  in  his 
head.  Now,  she  would  come  and  spoil  all  the  comfort 
we  had  ;  but  as  Mr.  Ross  had  said  she  (Cousin  Sally) 
should  do  as  she  pleased,  she  meant  to  stay,  and  not  let 
the  children  be  cowed  down  by  any  step-mother.' 

"  It  was  in  vain  Frank  urged  that  his  father  had 
spoken  of  his  future  wife's  good  temper.  Cousin  Sally 
Baid  a  woman  would  be  a  fool  to  show  temper  before  mar 
riage  ;  she  only  hoped  she  would  not  live  to  see  Frank 
change  his  mind — which  wish  did  not  seem  to  be  exactly 
sincere. 

"  I  listened  to  all  that  was  said,  as  though  it  had  been 
uttered  by  an  oracle,  though  I  did  not  know  much  about 
oracles  in  those  days,  and  made  up  my  mind  never  to 
like  my  step-mother. 

"  When  we  were  alone,  and  Frank  besought  me  to 
wait  and  see,  I  was  only  the  more  determined  to  dislike 
her,  and  we  were  a  wretched  set  during  the  week  that 
passed  ere  their  arrival. 

"  How  distinctly,"  continued  Mrs.  Carleton,  "  I  re 
member  the  whole  scene  !  It  seems  but  the  other  day 
that  we  were  seated  in  the  parlour,  awaiting  their  arrival. 
The  lamps  were  lighted,  and  Frank  sat  reading,  or  pre 
tending  to  read.  Nelly  sat  on  the  floor  with  her 


MY    STEP-MOTHER.  27 

nnd  seemed  afraid  of  coming  in  the  door,  by  the  glances 
she  gave.  I  (with  a  face  swelled  from  continual  crying), 
having  tried  each  seat  in  the  room,  had  worked  myself 
in  a  passion  at  Frank's  hardness  of  heart.  He  had  done 
all  he  could  to  soothe  me,  and  had  left  me  froir  sheer 
inability  to  propose  any  other  plan. 

"  At  last  the  door  opened,  and  my  father  entered, 
leading  in  a  lady.  She  was  about  middle  size,  plainly, 
but  richly  dressed.  Frank  went  forward,  but,  though  I 
rose,  I  remained  standing  in  the  same  place.  The  lady 
held  out  her  hand,  and  said, 

"  '  I  have  the  advantage,  Frank  !  I  have  heard  so 
much  about  you,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  a  long 
time.'  It  was  not  the  words  she  spoke,  but  the  manner 
that  won  Frank's  heart.  It  said,  '  I  have  heard  nothing 
but  what  does  you  credit.'  She  appeared  to  be  quite 
content  with  the  expression  of  his  crimsoned  face,  as  he 
kissed  the  hand  he  held. 

"  '  Annie  !'  said  my  father,  but  I  did  not  move. 

"  '  Annie's  head  has  been  so  bad,  all  day,'  said  Frank, 
kindly. 

"  '  My  poor  child,'  said  she ;  '  and  you  have  been  sit 
ting  up  so  late  for  us,'  and  she  bent  down  and  kissed 
my  forehead.  '  You  seem  quite  feverish  ;'  but,  turning 
away,  I  threw  myself  into  my  father's  arms  and  cried 
bitterly. 

"  Again  and  again  he  pressed  me  to  him,  and  expressed 
his  sorrow  for  my  headache,  while  Frank  was  assisting 
his  new  mother  to  make  friends  with  Nelly,  who,  after 
ane  of  those  scrutinizing  looks  that  children  can  give. 


MY    STEP-MOTHER. 

allowed  herself  to  be  taken  up  on  her  lap,  and  smilingly 
answered  all  questions. 

"  Cousin  Sally  was  asked  for,  and  presented;  but,  al 
though  she  could  find  no  fault  with  her  reception,  yet 
she  declared  it  was  all  make  believe,  as  she  undressed 
me  on  going  to  bed. 

"  The  next  day  my  step-mother  made  many  attempts 
to  conciliate  me,  and  at  last  proposed  my  showing  her 
the  house.  I  obeyed,  of  course,  and  when  we  were  in 
my  room,  she  seated  herself,  and  putting  her  arm  around 
me,  said, 

"  '  I  am  sorry,  dear  Annie,  that  you  seem  so  un 
friendly  towards  me.  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  reluc 
tance  to  see  any  one  fill  your  mother's  place,  nor  do  I 
expect  you  to  love  me  at  once.  Try,  dear  Annie,  to 
look  on  me  as  a  friend,  who  will  do  all  in  her  power  to 
make  you  happy.  Do  not  give  way  to  dislike  without 
cause.  If  not  for  my  sake,  try  and  love  me  for  your 
father's  ;  will  you  not  ?" 

"  I  have  often  wondered  since,  how  I  could  have  re 
sisted  her  pleadings.  My  feelings  were  rapidly  thawing, 
when  Cousin  Sally's  speeches  about  the  deceitfulness  of 
step-mothers  flashed  across  my  brain,  and  to  her  evi 
dent  sorrow  and  surprise,  I  turned  coldly  away. 

"  How  often,  since,  I  have  wondered  at  her  patience, 
and  thought  how  much  she  must  have  loved  my  father, 
to  have  endured  all  that  I  made  her  suffer,  and  yet  never 
to  complain  to  him  !  Was  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  her 
Heart  turned  to  Frank  and  Nelly,  who  almost  adored  her? 
Sometimes,  when  obliged  by  a  strong  sense  of  duty  to 
curb  and  restrain  me,  I  always  had  ample  revenge  in  her 


MY    STEP-MOTHER.  2S 

look  of  regret,  as  I  turned  away,  saying,  '  If  you  were 
iny  oivn  mother  you  would  not  dj  so.' 

"  Do  not  imagine,  my  dear  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Carleton,  "  that  I  really  thought  so — for,  in  general, 
children  have  a  keen  sense  of  justice ;  but  Cousin 
Sally  always  took  my  part,  and  inwardly  made  use  of 
the  words — '  It  is  easy  to  see  you  are  not  one  of  her 
children.'  As  to  Frank  and  Nelly's  going  over  to  the 
enemy,  as  she  termed  it,  she  regarded  it  as  a  personal 
insult. 

"  Time  passed  on — spring  had  come,  when  Frank  re 
turned  home  one  day,  complaining  of  sickness  and  pain 
in  his  head ;  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  refusing  to 
go  to  bed,  as  he  said  he  would  be  sure  to  imagine  him 
self  very  ill.  My  step-mother  brought  pillows,  and 
gave  order  that  no  visiters  should  be  admitted.  Frank 
was  restless,  and  complained  he  could  not  find  an  easy 
position. 

"  '  Let  me  sit  in  the  corner,  Frank,'  said  she.  Putting 
a  pillow  on  her  lap,  she  gently  laid  his  head  on  it,  and 
commenced  smoothing  his  curls  with  her  comb. 

"  '  Thank  you  !  how  cool  your  hands  feel !  please 
comb  on,  it  feels  so  soothing,'  said  he,  as  he  at  last  lay 
quiet  and  finally  dropped  to  sleep.  Nelly  and  I  went 
out  of  the  room,  and,  about  an  hour  after,  father  came 
home.  He  seemed  much  surprised,  and  sent  for  the 
doctor,  who  said  it  might  be  the  measles,  and  that  a  few 
hours  would  decide.  My  father  asked  if  he  would  re 
commend  Nelly  and  me  to  leave  the  house.  The  doctor 
would  not  hear  of  it.  The  best  thing  for  us  was  to  have 
them  now  as  the  season  WAS  favourable,  and  he  approved 


30  MY    STEP-MOTHER. 

of  children's  having  them,  if  possible,  when  young. 
Frank  was  delirious  all  night.  The  doctor  came  early, 
and  seemed  very  anxious. 

"  But  it  is  useless  to  dwell  on  the  details.  He  was 
dangerously  ill,  and  my  step-mother  nursed  him  night 
and  day.  At  length  the  doctor  pronounced  him  out  of 
danger,  and  said  he  only  required  her  care.  After  he 
had  gone,  Frank  complained  that  his  pillows  were  not 
comfortable :  my  step-mother  raised  his  head,  but,  not 
pleasing  him,  said, 

"  '  Support  yourself  by  clasping  your  arms  round  my 
neck.  I  can  then  have  both  hands  free,  dear  Frank.' 

"  He  did  so,  and,  after  making  the  desired  change, 
instead  of  loosening  his  hold,  he  drew  her  face  to  his. 
Baying, 

"  '  You  could  not  do  more  for  me,  if  I  was  your  own 
xm.' 

"  '  I  certainly  think  I  could  not  love  you  more, 
Frank  !' 

"  Frank  was  too  weak  to  do  more  than  kiss  the  cheek 
he  still  held  pressed  against  his  own,  and  murmured, 
softly, 

"  '  My  dear  mother !' 

"  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  she  turned  away ;  but 
catching  a  glimpse  of  me,  as  I  sat  crouching  in  the  easy- 
chair,  she  said, 

"  '  Frank  !  here  is  Annie,  come  to  congratulate  you.' 

"  Frank  looked  at  me  ;  and  my  step-mother,  reaching 
her  hand  out  to  mine,  drew  me  towards  them.  Frank 
kissed  me,  and  holding  a  hand  of  each,  he  fell  asleep. 
Softly  disengaging  my  hand,  she  said  gently  to  me, 


MY    STEP-MOTHER.  31 

"  '  Run  away,  dear  Annie !  it  is  too  close  in  this  room 
for  you.' 

"  I  suppose  I  must  have  looked  more  gentle  than 
usual,  for  she  kissed  me,  saying, 

"  '  Go  !  my  dear  child.'  0 

"For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  returned  the  kiss; 
and  then,  ashamed  of  having  done  so,  looked  more  re 
pelling  than  ever,  and  left  the  room. 

"  Nelly  next  took  the  measles,  but  she  had  them  very 
lightly ;  my  turn  came  next,  and  1  was  sick,  indeed  ! 

"  Cousin  Sally  would  have  constituted  herself  my  solo 
nurse ;  but  my  step-mother  would  not  allow  it,  nursing 
me  with  the  same  unwearying  kindness  with  which  she 
had  nursed  Frank. 

"  One  evening  I  had  been  asleep,  and,  on  opening  my 
eyes,  r>jund  my  father  in  the  room,  and  in  deep  conver 
versation  with  my  step-mother.  He  was  urging  her  to 
take  exercise  in  the  open  air ;  he  could  see  that  she  was 
Buffering  for  the  want  of  it,  and  that  Cousin  Sally  would 
take  all  proper  care  of  me.  It  was  her  answer  that 
made  the  great  impression  on  me  that  I  have  never  for 
gotten,  as  I  watched  her  face  by  the  changeful  light  of 
the  fire. 

"  My  dear  husband !  when  I  married  you  I  made  a 
vow,  as  far  as  it  was  in  my  power,  to  endeavour  to  be  a 
mother  to  your  children.  Now,  do  you  think  if  they 
were  mine  in  reality,  I  would  intrust  them,  when  ill,  to 
any  one,  if  I  were  able  to  nurse  them  myself?  More 
than  that,  I  think  Annie  is  beginning  to  love  me.  Do 
you  net  think  that  is  worth  something  more  than  an 
inconverrence  ?  She  would  feel  hurt  if  I  left  her  now 


32  MY    STEP-MOTHER. 

to  the  care  of  any  one.     We  will  soon  have  her  loving 
us  as  we  love  her." 

"  'Not  till  you  have  sent  Cousin  Sally  away,'  sail] 
Frank,  starting  from  my  old  hiding-place,  the  easy-chair. 
*  Father,  coma  down  in  the  study  with  me,  I  want  to  talk 
with  you;'  so  saying,  he  drew  his  astonished  auditor  out 
of  the  room,  whilst  my  step-mother  followed  them  with 
locks  of  great  amazement — then  advancing  to  the  bed, 
she  bent  down  to  see  if  I  were  awake.  As  I  made  no 
movement,  and  remained  silent,  she  concluded  I  was 
sleeping,  and  resumed  her  seat  beside  the  fire. 

"  It  seemed  as  if  a  veil  had  been  removed  from  my 
mind.  For  the  first  time  I  thought  of  her,  free  from 
prejudice,  and  I  prayed  that  God  would  spare  me,  that 
I  might  love  her  as  she  deserved.  Still,  I  gave  no  token 
of  what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  and  a  false  shame  prr 
vented  me  from  saying- — '  Mother,  I  love  you.' 

"  What  passed  between  my  father  and  Frank,  of 
course,  at  the  time,  I  did  not  know.  All  that  was  told 
me  was,  the  doctor  had  ordered  change  of  air,  and,  as 
my  step-mother  came  from  a  Southern  city,  it  was  pro 
posed  to  pay  her  relations  a  visit.  We  were  all  to  go. 
My  father  would  escort  us  there,  arid  bring  us  back.  It 
seemed  to  surprise  them  that  I  consented  so  willingly  to 
go,  as  no  one  had  any  idea  of  the  change  in  my  feel 
ings,  and  I  could  not  venture  to  make  any  demonstra 
tion. 

"  My  step-mother  seemed  radiant  with  happiness. 
She  was  going  to  her  mother,  and  she  could  show  her 
the  new  objects  of  her  love.  Frank  and  Nelly  she  was 
BO  fond  and  so  proud  of.  My  faults  would  be  hidden 


MY   STEP-MOTHER.  33 

with  the  plea  of  illness.  Her  mother,  who  had  objected 
to  the  match  on  account  of  the  children,  would  now  see 
what  treasures  they  were. 

"  I  bore  the  journey  very  well,  and  behaved  so  well 
to  the  strangers,  that  when  Nelly  and  I  went  to  bed, 
my  step-mother  praised  and  thanked  me.  As  she  sat 
talking  to  us,  before  we  all  knelt  down  in  prayer,  with 
her  arm  around  me,  I  took  courage  and  said, 

"  '  Mother,  you  pray  to-night,  and  pray  that  I  may 
be  a  comfort  to  you,  as  well  as  Frank  and  Nelly.'  Am? 
she  did  pray  aloud  for  me,  and  thanked  her  Heavenly 
Father  that  at  last  He  had  touched  my  heart,  and  that 
I  would  always  continue,  in  all  times,  in  joy  and  in 
trouble,  to  seek  for  such  blessings  as  He  alone  could 
give.  It  was  a  very  simple  prayer,  adapted  to  the 
-vants  of  those  for  whom  she  prayed ;  but,  I  can  safely 
oay,  that  never  since,  has  any  prayer  I  ever  heard,  made 
a  greater  impression  on  me.  From  that  time,  I  felt  free 
to  love  her,  and  when  we  returned  home  and  found  that 
Cousin  Sally  had  gone  to  see  her  son  in  another  state, 
and  that  my  father  had,  during  our  absence,  removed 
all  the  old  servants,  so  that  there  was  no  one  to  utter 
the  remarks  again,  I  do  not  think  there  was  a  more 
united  fairily  in  the  city.  After  the  death  of  my 
father,  the  greatest  trial  I  ever  had,  was  when  my  once 
hated  step-mother  decided  on  living  with  Nelly,  who 
was  a  widow,  and  to  whom  the  board  of  our  mother  was 
an  object. 

"  Arid  now,  Annie,  do  you  pity  Jane  as  much  as  you 
did  ?  I  advise  you  to  wait  and  see  the  future  Mrs.  Ben 
son  ;  and  you,  my  dear  Jane,  I  earnestly  entreat,  when 
3 


34  A  MOTHER'S  EYES. 

angry  thoughts  rise,  and  they  do  in  every  bosom,  think 
how  much  pain  I  might  have  spared  my  mothor  and  my 
self,  by  not  giving  way  to  prejudice." 


A  MOTHER'S  EYES. 

A  MOTHER'S  eyes  are  magnets  of  the  child, 
To  draw  him  up  to  boyhood  ;  then,  like  stars, 
They  are  put  out  by  meteoric  youth 
Dimming  the  pure  calm  of  their  holy  ray. 
A  mother's  eyes  the  grown-up  man  forgets, 
As  they  had  never  been  :  with  knitted  brow, 
The  goddess  pilot  of  Ambition's  sea, 
Steering  his  bark  to  islands  all  unknown 
He  never  reaches.     Lo !  in  dismal  wreck 
Those  isles  are  covered  with  the  ghosts  of  ships 
That  only  drift  there  through  Oblivion's  night, 
Touching  the  shore  in  silence. 

In  old  age, 

Remembrance  from  her  portrait  lifts  the  veil, 
And  then  a  mother's  eyes  look  forth  again, 
And  through  the  soul's  dark  windows  gaze,  like 
New  lighted  from  the  sky,  and  fill  it  thus 
With  thoughts  of  innocence  and  dreams  of  lam 


WHERE    IS   HEAVEN? 

DURING  one  of  those  still  evenings  in  the  very  heart 
of  summer,  when  the  twilight,  deepening  apace,  seems 
to  withdraw  the  earth  from  us,  and  to  bring  the  heavens 
near,  a  mother  and  her  little  girl  sat  together  by  an 
open  window,  and  both  looked  up  to  the  sky.  The  lady 
was  lost  in  thought ;  but  her  child  counted  the  stars  to 
a  low,  merry  tone,  singing  "  Two,  six,  ten,  twenty,  a 
hundred, — a  hundred  bright  stars!  —  Oh,  how  many, 
many,  many!  and  how  bright!"  until,  turning  to  her 
mother,  and  grasping  her  dress  to  secure  attention,  she 
exclaimed,  with  sudden  energy,  "  Tell  me,  mother,  is 
Heaven  in  the  stars  ?" 

"  Gently,  Alice,"  said  her  mother.  "  In  the  stars  ? 
No,  certainly  not." 

"  Where  is  it,  then  ? — in  the  sky,  between  the  stars  ? 
Do  tell  me  where  it  is.  Once  you  said  you  would  tell 
me  when  I  was  old  enough  to  understand,  and  I  think  I 
can  understand  now." 

"  Come  here,  then ;"  her  mother  replied,  holding  out 
her  arms  to  the  little  girl;  "sit  quietly  on  my  lap,  and 
I  will  tell  you  something  about  it ;  but  you  must  be  very 
attentive,  because  it  is  not  easy  for  a  little  child  to  com 
prehend  such  great  truths.  You  asked,  just  now,  whe 
ther  Heaven  were  in  the  stars.  What  did  your  father 
tell  you,  yesterday,  about  the  stars?" 

"  He  told  me  that  some  of  them,  but  only  just  a  very 
few,  were  worlds  something  like  our  world,  and  that 


36  WHERE    IS    HEAVEN  ? 

they  went  round  and  round  the  sun,  and  had  dny  and 
night  and  summer  and  winter.  The  rest,  he  said,  were 
great  big  suns,  ever  so  far  off, — oh,  so  far  off!  nobody 
knew  how  far  some  of  them  were  ;  and  he  had  no  doubt 
there  were  worlds  going  round  and  round  those  suns  too, 
and  people  in  the  worlds,  t/ho  were  put  there  to  learn 
what  is  good  and  true ;  and  he  supposed  they  were 
tempted  to  do  wrong,  and  were  sometimes  unhappy,  as 
we  are." 

"  Then,  do  you  suppose  Heaven  is  there?" 

"'  Oh  no !  of  course  it  is  not.  I  did  not  think  of 
that!" 

"  No,  my  darling  child,  Heaven  is  not  in  any  place 
which  we  can  see  with  our  bodily  eyes.  We  cannot 
point  with  hands  of  flesh  to  the  road  that  leads  to  that 
country,  nor  walk  along  it  with  these  feet.  If  you  went 
up  into  the  depths  of  the  sky,  and  searched  it  through, 
from  north  to  south,  and  from  east  to  west,  you  would 
not  find  Heaven  there,  nor  meet  one  angel  on  your 
way." 

"  Then,  mother,  are  you  sure  there  is  a  Heaven,  if  it 
is  not  anywhere?" 

"  Sure  ?  Yes,  as  sure  as  that  I  love  you,  and  that 
you  love  me.  Do  you  love  me  ?" 

"  Why,  mother,  you  know  I  do  !" 

"  Are  you  sure  ?     Can  you  see  your  love  ?" 

"No." 

"  Can  you  lay  hold  of  it  with  your  hands  ?" 

"No." 

"  What  shape  is  it,  round  or  square  ?" 


WIIEUE   IS   HEAVEN?  37 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alice,  laughing.  "  It  is  not  any 
tjhape." 

"Where  is  it? — can  you  tell  me  that?" 

"  No,  I  am  sure  I  cannot.  It  is  all  inside  of  me ; 
all  inside  my  soul." 

"  Then  you  see  there  can  be  a  real  thing  which  you 
cannot  look  at  with  your  bodily  eyes,  nor  touch  with 
these  little  hands,  and  which  does  not  occupy  any 
earthly  space,  but  which  is  still  a  real,  true,  living  tiling. 
Just  such  a  real,  true  thing  is  Heaven ;  only  it  is  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  a  thing,  diiferent  kind  of  world  from  this 
earth,  arid,  like  your  love,  does  not  fill  natural  space. 
You  say  your  love  is  inside  your  soul ;  there,  then,  and 
not  on  the  earth,  or  among  the  stars,  which  lie  all  out 
side  of  it,  you  must  look  for  the  path  that  leads  to 
Heaven.  If  you  pray  to  God,  and  try  to  do  what  you 
know  is  pleasing  in  His  sight,  He  will  show  it  to  you, 
and  lead  you  safely  along  it." 

"  Will  He  really  show  it  to  me  ?  and  will  it  be  beau 
tiful,  all  covered  with  flowers  ?" 

"You  know  I  told  you  we  cannot  see  those  things 
with  our  bodily  eyes ;  but  if  you  try  to  be  a  good  girl, 
God  will  put  true  thoughts,  and  gentle,  loving  feelings 
into  your  heart,  and  they  will  guide  you  to  Heaven, 
where  the  pure  and  happy  angels  live." 

'  Could  I  see  the  angels  with  my  eyes  ?" 

"  Not  with  those  eyes." 

"  But  I  have  not  got  any  other  eyes." 

"Yes,  you  have.     YTour  spirit  has  eyes." 

"  I  don't  think  it  has,  mother,  for,  when  I  shut  these 
two  up  so,"  said  Alice,  pressing  her  lids  so  tightly  to- 


88  WHERE   IS    HEAVEN? 

gether,  that  scarcely  more  than  the  tips  of  he*  long 
lashes  were  visible,  "  I  cannot  see  one  bit ;  it  is  all 
dark." 

"  That  is  because  your  spiritual  eyes  are  closed." 

"  But  why  can  I  not  open  them  ?" 

"  God  has  not  given  us  the  power  to  open  them  while 
we  are  in  this  world ;  and,  if  they  -were  open,  we  could 
no  more  see  earthly  things  writh  them,  than  we  can  see 
heavenly  things  with  our  bodily  eyes." 

"  What  should  I  see  with  them  ?" 

"  Any  spiritual  thing  that  was  near  to  you.  Very 
painful  and  ugly  things,  if  you  were  naughty ;  beautiful 
things,  and  angels,  if  you  were  good.  Do  you  not  re 
member,  how  often,  in  the  Bible,  we  are  told  of  good 
men  who  had  their  eyes  opened,  and  saw,  and  talked 
with  angels  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  little  girl,  and  added,  in  a  low 
and  reverent  voice,  "  They  saw  the  Lord,  too,  after  He 
had  risen  ;  and  He  blessed  them.  He  said  '  Peace  be 
with  you.' ' 

"Yes,  love.  All  those  holy  things  men  saw  with 
their  spiritual  eyes,  when  it  pleased  God  to  open  them." 

"  Why  will  He  not  open  ours  now,  and  let  us  see 
angels  ?" 

"  God  loves  us,  my  child,  with  an  infinite  love,  and 
if  it  were  good  for  us  He  would;  but  He  does  not,  and 
therefore  we  may  know  that  it  would  do  us  harm.  Do 
you  think,  if  you  saw  angels  and  other  spiritual  things 
about  you  all  the  time,  you  could  attend  properly  to 
your  lessons,  arid  the  other  duties  you  have  to  perform 
nere  ?" 


WHERE   IS   HEAVEN  ?  39 

"No,"  said  Alice,  "I  do  not  think  I  could,  for  even 
the  little  birds  flying  past  make  me  look  up  from  my 
book." 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  her  mother  kept 
silence,  that  the  little  one  might  have  time  to  garner  in 
her  golden  harvest  of  new  thoughts,  she  looked  up  again, 
and  said  with  great  earnestness,  "  Mother,  I  should  like 
to  die." 

Kissing  tenderly  the  little  upraised  face,  her  mother 
replied,  "  I  hope,  dear  one,  that  you  will  like  to  die, 
when  it  is  God's  will  to  take  you  ;  but,  remember,  merely 
dying  does  not  take  us  to  Heaven.  You  must  be  glad 
and  grateful  to  live ;  you  must  make  the  very  best  use 
you  possibly  can  of  the  time  God  gives  you,  for  it  is 
only  so  that  we  can  become  good  and  happy  in  this 
world,  or  any  world.  And  now,  my  darling,  it  is  late, 
and  you  must  go  to  bed.  Give  me  one  more  kiss ;  and . 
do  not  forget  to  say  your  prayers  before  you  go  to  sleep. 
If  you  are  a  good  girl,  I  will  tell  you  more  about  Heaven 
some  other  day.  Good-night." 

Little  Alice  went  to  bed  full  of  thought ;  but  no 
sooner  had  her  innocent  head  touched  the  pillow,  than 
she  was  in  a  sound,  sweet  sleep. 


A  CHAPTER  ON  TEASING. 

"MOTHER,"  said  George  Manson,  "may  I  go  with 
the  boys  and  skate  on  the  great  pond  this  evening?" 

"  No,  George ;  I  do  not  like  to  have  you  go  this 
evening." 

"•  Now,  mother,  do  let  me  go ;  it  will  be  such  a  fine 
evening,  and  the  boys  all  want  me  to  come." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  best  for  you  to  go,  George." 

"  Why  not,  mother ;  why  can't  I  go  ?" 

"  You  have  a  hard  cold,  and  perhaps  if  you  go,  it  will 
make  you  so  sick  you  will  be  unable  to  attend  school  for 
several  days." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  won't  make  me  sick,  mother ;  I  am  sure 
it  will  not.  My  cold  is  not  bad  now,  and  it  will  be  such 
a  beautiful  evening ;  do  let  me  go,  mother,  do ;  won't 
you  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  son,  that  the  pond  is  not  frozen 
over  hard  enough." 

"Yes,  mother,  it  is.  Only  think  what  cold  nights 
we  have  had ;  besides,  James  Edwards  is  going,  and  his 
father  never  lets  him  go  when  the  ice  is  thin.  Won't 
you  let  me  go,  mother?" 

"You  had  better  wait  till  to-morrow  night." 

"  But  the  boys  are  all  going  this  evening,  and  perhaps 
they  will  not  go  to-morrow  night.  Now,  mother,  only 
say  yes,  to-night,  and  I  will  not  ask  you  again  this  week." 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  teaser  !     Do  go ;  for  I  am 


A   CHAPTER   ON    TEASING.  41 

Mire  you  will  tease  my  life  away  if  you  stay  at  home ; 
but  do  not  complain  if  it  makes  you  sick." 

The  next  noon,  Mrs.  Manson's  eldest  daughter  came 
to  ask  her  mother's  permission  to  visit  one  of  her  young 
friends.  "  Susan  asked  me  to  come  this  afternoon,"  said 
Mary  ;  "  may  I  go  ?" 

"No,  you  cannot  go,"  said  Mrs.  Manson,  as  she  sent 
her  away  with  a  frown. 

Now  Mary  was  ?i  girl  of  delicate  feelings.  She  was 
by  no  means  so  fond  of  teasing  as  her  mother  supposed. 
On  the  present  occasion,  as  often  before,  she  had  quite 
a  struggle  with  herself,  as  to  the  course  she  should  pur 
sue.  On  the  one  hand,  she  shrank  from  the  task  of 
obtaining  a  reluctant  consent  from  her  mother  by  teasing ; 
on  the  other  hand,  she  very  much  wished  to  visit  her 
friend,  and  had  reason  to  think,  from  past  experience, 
that  she  might  obtain  consent  by  means  which  had  so 
often  proved  successful.  In  the  present  instance,  her 
mother,  who  had  half  repented  of  refusing  a  request 
which,  on  reflection,  did  not  appear  unreasonable,  was 
easily  persuaded  to  withdraw  her  refusal,  and  give  the 
desired  permission. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mrs.  Manson  paid  a  visit  to  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Day.  "Mother,"  said  Henry  Day,  when 
he  returned  from  school  at  night,  "  Edward  Smith  asked 
me  to  come  and  see'him  next  Saturday;  may  I  go?" 

"  No,  my  son,  you  have  been  there  very  recently ;  I 
do  not  think  it  best  for  you  to  go  again  so  soon." 

"  May  I  go  out  and  slide  with  the  boys  till  tea  time  ?' 

"Yes,  my  dear,  you  may  go." 

"  Mother,"  said  Emma,  "  Cousin  Sarah  wishes  me  to 


42  A   CHAPTER   ON   TEASING. 

spend  the  afternoon  with  her  next  Saturday ;  may  1 
go?" 

"  Next  Saturday,  my  daughter,  is  some  days  ahead. 
I  cannot  decide  now ;  but  come  to  me  Saturday  noon, 
nnd  I  will  let  you  know.  I  shall  be  happy  to  gratify 
you  if  it  is  best  for  you  to  go ;  but  if  anything  should 
occur  to  prevent,  I  hope  my  daughter  will  bear  the  dis 
appointment  cheerfully." 

When  the  children  had  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Manson 
exclaimed,  "  I  wish  my  children  were  like  yours,  Mrs. 
Day.  Do  tell  me  if  your  children  never  tease.  My 
children  wear  me  out  teasing,  from  morning  till  night. 
If  my  George  had  been  in  your  Henry's  place,  he  would 
have  given  me  no  rest  from  now  till  Saturday  noon,  if  I 
had  refused  to  let  him  go." 

"My  children,"  said  Mrs.  Day,  "never  tease;  and 
pardon  me,  my  dear  friend,  if  I  say  that  when  I  see 
teasing  children,  I  always  attribute  the  habit  entirely  to 
the  parents,  regarding  it  as  the  natural  effect  of  causes 
which  they  have  set  in  operation." 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  I  think  there  is  a  great 
difference  in  children.  Some  are  the  natural  teasers.  I 
believe  my  children  love  to  tease." 

"  Again  I  must  differ  from  you.  I  do  not  believe 
there  is  a  child  in  the  world  who  loves  to  tease.  I  think 
teasing,  itself,  is  naturally  disagreeable  to  every  child." 

"  Well,  I  certainly  know  that  if  teasing  was  disagree 
able  to  my  children,  they  would  not  follow  it  so  inces 
santly  as  they  do." 

"  I  am  by  no  means  sure  of  that.  We  all  often  con 
sent  to  do  disagreeable  things,  if  by  that  means  we  can 
secure  some  favourite  object.  My  own  experience  has 


A    CHAPTER   ON   TEASING.  .  43 

convinced  me  that  teasing  is  nearly  or  quite  as  disagree 
able  to  the  teaser  as  to  the  teased.  When  I  was  a  child, 
I  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  great  teaser ;  but  I  can 
well  recollect  the  reluctance  with  which  I  set  about  the 
task  of  procuring  my  mother's  consent  to  some  favourite 
scheme  by  this  means.  Like  all  children,  I  greatly  de 
sired  the  indulgence  which  I  sought  to  obtain,  and  I  had 
found  by  trial  that  my  point  was  often  obtained  in  this 
way,  and  seldom  in  any  other.  Depend  upon  it,  no  child 
will  ever  tease  who  has  not  been  in  the  habit  of  gaining 
something  by  it.  Children  will  not  work  so  hard  for 
nothing." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it  would  be  possible  to  keep  my 
children  from  teasing.  The  other  evening  George  was 
bent  upon  going  with  the  boys  to  skate  upon  the  pond. 
I  did  not  like  to  have  him  go,  as  he  had  a  bad  cold,  but 
he  teased  every  moment,  till  he  obtained  my  consent." 

"  And  can  you  think  it  strange  if  the  next  time  he 
wishes  to  gain  your  consent  to  his  plans,  he  remembers 
the  circumstances,  and  is  encouraged  to  try  again  ? 
Henry  would  like  very  much  to  visit  his  friend  next 
Saturday  ;  but  he  is  perfectly  aware  that,  with  his  pa 
rents,  no  means  NO ;  and  that  no  importunity  changes 
NO  to  YES  ;  and  he  does  not  think  of  making  the  at 
tempt." 

"  But  sometimes  I  refuse  my  children,  when  after 
wards  I  am  sorry  I  did  so.  What  can  one  do,  in  such 
a  case  ?" 

"  I  think,  my  friend,  we  should  be  very  careful  never 
inconsistently  to  refuse  our  children's  requests.  We 
should  remember  that  our  decision,  when  once  expressed. 


44  A   CHAPTER   ON   TEASING 

ought  to  be,  like  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians, 
unchangeable,  and  therefore  we  should  not  allow  our 
selves  to  be  hasty  in  making  known  a  decision  which 
cannot  be  repealed  without  serious  injury  to  the  child. 
If  it  is  evident  that  the  request  is  reasonable,  we  should 
ahvnys  grant  it  with  cheerful  promptness.  This  will 
gain  the  confidence  of  our  children.  They  will  come 
openly  and  frankly  with  their  requests,  assured  that  we 
sli:ill  not  refuse  them  from  mere  caprice,  and  afterwards 
yield  to  their  importunity." 

"  But  if  you  have  inconsistently  refused  them  a  rea 
sonable  request,  may  you  never  change  your  decision?" 

"  I  think  not.  It  will  be  better  for  them  to  abide  by 
it,  while  you  learn  the  lesson  to  be  more  careful  in 
future." 

"  But  suppose  you  cannot  make  up  your  mind,  at 
once?" 

"  Then  name  some  future  time  when  you  will  let  them 
know  your  decision,  and  let  it  be  understood  that  no 
thing  further  is  to  be  said  to  you  on  the  subject  till  the 
time  arrives.  Pursue  this  course  with  decision  and  per 
severance,  and  you  may  be  assured  that  your  children 
will  quit  a  habit  which  they  find  not  only  disagreeable, 
but  unprofitable.  It  greatly  promotes  the  happiness  of 
our  children  to  meet  their  requests  in  this  prompt  and 
decided  manner.  You  never  saw  a  child  in  the  act  of 
teasing,  whose  countenance  did  not  express  more  or  less 
of  a  restless  anxiety.  He  may  gain  his  point  by  impor 
tunity,  and  he  may  not;  and  in  this  way  the  mind  {3 
often  kept  on  the  rack  of  suspense  for  hours,  to  the  seri 
ous  injury  of  the  temper  and  disposition  of  the  child." 


CHILDHOOD. 

BE  kind  to  the  little  child.  You  cannot  tell  how  one 
harsh  word  or  unkind  look  will  chill  his  heart,  and  fill 
his  eyes  with  tears.  You  may  forget  that  the  word  has 
been  spoken,  and  endeavour  by  kind  acts  to  win  the  child's 
affections,  but  you  may  never  be  able  to  remove  the  impres 
sion  which  that  look  and  word  have  made.  Many  people 
suppose  that  children  are  less  observing  than  older  persons, 
and  they  use  language  before  them  which  they  would  con 
sider  too  "  impolite"  to  be  used  before  their  friends  and 
acquaintances.  This  is  a  sad  and  fatal  mistake.  A  child's 
impressions  are  sometimes  so  lasting,  that  a  whole  life 
time's  after  experience  is  not  able  to  remove  them.  E;ich 
one  may  recall  some  of  the  feelings  of  childhood,  which 
have  continued  to  the  present  time,  and  which  a  sober 
judgment  has  not  been  able  to  remove.  Let  the  words 
spoken  to  young  children  be  gentle,  loving  words,  which 
we  should  not  regret  to  have  them  remember  in  after 
years.  Let  the  child  be  treated  with  sincerity,  and  let 
only  the  words  of  truth  be  addressed  to  him,  for  in  this 
way  alone  can  he  be  taught  to  practise  the  truth  in  word 
and  action.  If  a  slight  deception  is  detected  by  a  child, 
he  will  not  again  trust  you.  No  effort  of  yours  can  re- 
ctore  that  perfect  confidence,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
attractive  attributes  of  childhood.  Unkindness  is  indeed 
an  injury  to  the  child,  for  it  chills  his  warm  affections, 
and  teaches  him  to  feel  misery,  when  God  meant  he  should 
be  happy.  But  harshness  is  far  better  than  deception, 


46  CHILDHOOD. 

for  this  robs  the  soul  of  its  trust,  and  may  rob  it  of  its 
most  precious  jewel,  the  diamond  truth. 

We  have  read  of  a  father  who  once  promised  his  son 
that  he  should  be  present  at  the  blasting  of  a  stone  wall, 
which  was  to  take  place  at  a  certain  time.  The  boy  was 
absent  at  the  time,  and  the  father,  forgetting  that  he 
had  made  the  promise,  allowed  the  blasting  to  take  place 
in  his  son's  absence.  The  boy  returned,  and  found  that 
his  father  had  broken  his  plighted  word.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  his  father  had  deceived  him,  and  full  of 
injured  feeling,  his  breast  swelling  with  disappointed 
hopes,  he  sought  his  father,  and  eagerly  reminded  him 
of  his  promise. 

For  a  moment  the  parent's  brow  was  overcast.  lie 
had  forgotten  his  promise ;  the  heavy  stone  wall,  with 
great  labour  and  expense,  had  been  destroyed,  and  his 
son  had  not  witnessed  its  destruction.  But.  what  was 
labour  and  expense  compared  to  a  father's  truth  ?  Turn 
ing  to  the  boy,  he  said,  "  I  did  promise  you  that  you 
should  see  the  blasting,  my  son ;  and  you  shall  see  it. 
The  wall  shall  be  rebuilt,  and  my  promise  shall  be  per 
formed."  Accordingly  the  wall  was  rebuilt,  and  the  boy 
learned  that  his  father  valued  his  word  above  all  price, 
and  would  spare  no  expense  to  keep  a  promise  which  he 
had  made  his  son.  There  are  no  lectures  or  essays 
•which  this  father  could  have  spoken  which  would  hau 
impressed  the  value  of  truth  upon  his  son's  mind  as 
powerfully  as  did  this  single  action. 

The  sorrows  of  childhood   are   often   called   fleeting. 

D 

They  are  so.  In  most  children  the  smile  may  be  easily 
called  up  in  the  midst  of  tears,  and  the  sunshine  and 


KIND  TO  THE  CHILD. 


MAY   BE   SO.  47 

clouds  succeed  each  other  very  rapidly  upon  the  face  of 
childhood.  Yet,  though  transient,  the  child's  sorrows 
are  real  sorrows ;  and  his  little  heart  aches  as  truly  as 
if  years  had  taught  him  more  patience.  He  has  less 
philosophy,  and  has  not  yet  learned  to  reason  about  his 
grief,  nor  does  he  realize  that  the  darkest  night  is  often 
just  before  day.  For  this  very  reason,  he  feels  his  sor 
row  more  keenly  than  if  he  were  older  and  more  philo 
sophical  ;  and  sympathy  in  his  griefs  will  be  as  sweet  to 
him  as  to  one  in  the  prime  of  life. 

Then  let  the  child  receive  sympathy  in  his  sorrows, 
and  let  us  do  all  in  our  power  to  lighten  his  grief,  and 
soothe  his  pain,  remembering  that  "  Of  such  is  the  king 
dom  of  Heaven." 


MAY  BE   SO. 

"  NEXT  time  you  go  out,  you'll  buy  me  a  wagon,  won't 
you,  mother?"  said  my  little  boy  to  me  one  day. 

I  didn't  want  to  say  "No,"  and  destroy  his  happy 
feelings,  and  I  was  not  prepared  to  say  "yes;"  and  so 
I  gave  the  evasive  reply  so  often  used  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  "  May  be  so,"  and  which  was  meant  rather 
as  a  negative  than  an  affirmative.  The  child  was  satis 
fied  ;  for  he  gave  my  words  the  meaning  he  wished  them 
to  have.  In  a  little  while  after,  I  had  forgotten  all 
aboat  it.  Not  so  my  boy.  To  him  the  "may  be  so" 
was  "  yes  ;"  and  he  set  his  heart  confidently  on  receiving 
the  wagon  the  next  time  I  should  go  out.  This  happened 


48  MAY   BE   SO. 

to  le  on  the  afternoon  of  that  very  day.  It  was  towards 
evening  when  I  returned.  The  moment  I  rung  the  bell 
at  my  own  door,  I  heard  his  pattering  feet  #nd  gleeful 
voice  in  the  entry. 

"Where's  my  wagon?"  said  he,  as  I  entered,  a  shade 
of  disappointment  falling  suddenly  upon  his  excited, 
happy  face. 

"What  wagon,  dear?"  I  asked. 

"  My  wagon.     The  wagon  you  promised  to  buy  me." 

"I  didn't  promise  to  buy  a  wagon,  my  son." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  did,  mother !  You  promised  me  this 
morning." 

Tears  were  already  in  his  eye,  and  his  face  wore  a 
.ook  of  distressing  disappointment. 

"  I  promised  to  buy  you  a  wagon  ?  I  am  sure  I  re 
member  nothing  about  it,"  I  replied  confidently.  "  What 
in  the  world  put  that  into  your  head?" 

"  Didn't  I  ask  you  ?"  said  the  child,  the  tears  now 
overflowing  his  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  did  ask  me  something  about  a 
wagon  ;  but  I  didn't  promise  to  buy  you  one." 

"  Oh,  yes  you  did,  mother.     You  said  May  be  so." 

*'  But  '  may  be  so'  doesn't  mean  yes." 

At  this  the  little  fellow  uttered  a  distressing  cry. 
His  heart  was  almost  broken  by  disappointment.  He 
had  interpreted  my  words  according  to  his  own  wishes, 
aod  not  according  to  their  real  meaning. 

Unprepared  for  an  occurrence  of  this  kind,  I  was  not 
in  the  mood  to  sympathize  with  my  child  fully.  To  be  met 
thus,  at  the  moment  of  my  return  home,  disturbed  me. 

"I  djdn't  promise  to  buy  you  a  \vagon  ;  and  you  must 


MAY   BE   SO  49 

stop  crying  about  it,"  said  I,  seeing  that  he  had  given 
way  to  his  feelings  and  was  crying  in  a  loud  voice. 

But  he  cried  on.  I  went  up  stairs  to  lay  off  my 
things,  and  he  followed,  still  crying. 

"  You  must  hush  now,"  said  I  more  positively.  "  I 
cannot  permit  this.  I  never  promised  to  buy  you  a 
wagon." 

"You  said  may  be  so,"  sobbed  the  child. 
"  May  be  so,  and  yes,  are  two  different  things.     If  I 
had  said  that  I  would  buy  you  a  wagon,  then  there  would 
have  been  some  reason  in  your  disappointment ;  but  I 
said  no  such  thing." 

He  had  paused  to  listen ;  but,  as  I  ceased  speaking, 
his  crying  was  renewed. 

"  You  must  stop  this  now.  There  is  no  use  in  it,  and 
I  will  not  have  it,"  said  I  resolutely. 

My  boy  choked  down  for  a  few  moments  at  this,  and 
half  stifled  his  grief;  but  overmastering  him,  it  flowed 
on  again  as  wildly  as  ever.  I  felt  impatient. 

"  Stop  this  moment,  I  say  !"  And  I  took  hold  of  his 
arm  firmly.  My  will  is  strong,  and  when  a  little  excited 
it  often  leads  me  beyond  where  I  would  go  in  moments 
of  reflection.  My  boy  knew  this  by  experience.  By 
my  manner  of  speaking  he  saw  that  I  was  in  earnest, 
and  that,  if  he  did  not  obey  me,  punishment  would  fol 
low.  So,  with  what  must  have  been  a  powerful  effort 
for  one  so  young,  he  stifled  the  utterance  of  his  grief. 
But  the  storm  within  raged  none  the  less  violently,  and 
I  could  see  his  little  frame  quiver  as  he  strove  to  repress 
the  rising  sobs. 

Turning  away  from  me,  he  went  and  sat  down  on  a 
4 


50  MAY   BE   SO. 

low  seat  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  I  saw  his  form  in  the 
glass  as  I  stood  before  it  to  arrange  my  hair,  after  laying 
aside  my  bonnet ;  and  for  the  first  time  my  feelings  were 
touched.  There  was  an  abandonment  in  his  whole  atti 
tude  ;  an  air  of  grief  about  him  that  affected  me  with 
pity  and  tenderness. 

"Poor  child!"  I  sighed.  "His  heart  is  almost 
broken.  I  ought  to  have  said  yes  or  no;  and  then  all 
would  have  been  settled." 

"  Come,"  said  I,  after  a  few  moments,  reaching  my 
hand  towards  the  child ;  "  let  us  go  down  and  look  out 
for  father.  He  will  be  home  soon." 

I  spoke  kindly  and  cheerfully.  But  he  neither  moved, 
looked  up,  nor  gave  the  smallest  sign  that  he  heard  me. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  I  with  some  impatience  in  my  voice, 
"  it  doesn't  matter  at  all.  If  you'd  rather  sit  there  than 
come  down  into  the  parlour  and  look  out  for  dear  father, 
you  can  please  yourself." 

And  turning  away  as  I  spoke,  I  left  the  chamber,  and 
went  down  stairs.  Seating  myself  at  a  window,  I  looked 
forth,  and  endeavoured  to  feel  unconcerned  and  cheerful. 
But  this  was  beyond  my  power.  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
form  of  my  grieving  child,  and  could  think  of  nothing 
but  his  sorrow  and  disappointment. 

"Nancy,"  said  I  to  one  of  my  domestics,  who  hap 
pened  to  come  into  the  parlour  to  ask  me  some  question, 
"  I  wish  you  would  run  down  to  the  toy  ;tore  in  the 
next  block,  and  buy  Neddy  a  wagon.  His  heart  is 
almost  broken  about  one." 

The  girl,  always  willing  when  kindly  spoken  to,  ran 


MAY   BE    SO.  51 

off  to  obey  my  wishes,  and  in  a  little  while  came  back 
with  the  article  wanted. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "go  up  into  my  room,  and  tell  Neddy 
that  I've  got  something  for  him.  Don't  mention  tho 
wagon;  I  want  to  take  him  by  surprise." 

Nancy  went  bounding  up  the  stairs,  and  I  placed  tho 
wagon  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  where  it  would  meet 
the  child's  eyes  on  the  moment  of  his  entrance ;  and 
then  sat  down  to  await  his  coming  and  enjoy  his  surprise 
and  delight. 

After  the  lapse  of  about  a  minute,  I  heard  Nancy 
coming  down  slowly. 

"Neddy's  asleep,"  said  she,  looking  in  at  the  door. 

"  Asleep  !"     I  felt  greatly  disappointed. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  He  was  on  the  floor  asleep.  I  took 
him  up  and  laid  him  in  your  bed." 

"  Then  he's  over  his  troubles,"  said  I,  attempting  to 
find  a  relief  for  my  feelings  in  this  utterance.  But  no 
such  relief  came. 

Taking  the  wagon  in  my  hand,  I  went  up  to  the 
chamber  where  he  lay,  and  bent  over  him.  The  signs 
of  grief  were  still  upon  his  innocent  face,  and  every 
now  and  then  a  faint  sigh  or  sob  gave  evidence  that  even 
sleep  had  not  yet  hushed,  entirely,  the  storm  which  had 
swept  over  him. 

"Neddy  !"  I  spoke  to  him  in  a  voice  of  tenderness, 
hoping  that  my  words  might  reach  his  ear.  "  Neddy, 
dear,  I've  bought  you  a  wagon." 

But  his  senses  were  locked.  Taking  him  up,  I  un 
dressed  him,  and  then,  after  kissing  his  lips,  brow,  and 


b'2  MAY   BE   SO. 

cheeks,  laid  him  in  his  little  bed,  and  placed  the  vagon 
on  the  pillow  beside  him. 

Even  until  the  late  hour  at  which  I  retired  on  that  even 
ing,  were  my  feelings  oppressed  by  the  incident  I  have 
described.  My  "May  be  so,"  uttered  in  order  to  avoid 
giving  the  direct  answer  my  child  wanted,  had  occasioned 
him  far  more  pain  than  a  positive  refusal  of  his  request 
could  have  done. 

"  I  will  be  more  careful  in  future,"  said  I,  as  I  lay 
thinking  about  the  occurrence,  "how  I  create  false 
hopes.  My  yea  shall  be  yea,  and  my  nay,  nay.  Of 
these,  cometh  not  evil." 

In  the  morning  when  I  awoke,  I  found  Neddy  in  pos 
session  of  his  wagon.  He  was  running  with  it  around 
the  room,  as  happy  as  if  a  tear  had  never  been  upon  his 
cheek.  I  looked  at  him  for  many  minutes  without  speak 
ing.  At  last,  seeing  that  I  was  awake,  he  bounded  up 
to  the  bedside,  and,  kissing  me,  said, 

"  Thank  you,  dear  mother,  for  buying  me  this  wagon ! 
You  are  a  good  mother !" 

I  must  own  to  having  felt  some  doubts  on  the  subject 
of  Neddy's  compliment,  at  the  time.  S'nce  this  little 
experience,  I  have  been  more  careful  how  I  answer  the 
petitions  of  my  children;  and  avoid  the  "May  be  so," 
"  I'll  see  about  it,"  and  other  such  evasive  answers  that 
come  so  readily  to  the  lips.  The  good  result  I  Lave 
experienced  in  many  instances. 


ARE  YOU  A  PARENT? 

AND  if  so,  what  lessons  are  you  teaching  that  child 
who  is  so  fondly  looking  to  you  for  guidance,  who  is 
listening  to  catch  the  first  syllable  that  falls  from  your 
lips,  and  who  is  ready  to  copy  the  first  example  you  may 
unconsciously  present?  Perhaps  in  the  arms  of  the 
mother  there  reposes  the  first  and  only  one.  It  is  yet 
innocent ;  within  its  little  bosom  a  heart  beats  gently, 
but  it  is  a  heart  uncontaminated  by  sin,  and  undisturbed 
by  care.  It  knows  nothing  of  the  conflicting  elements 
of  this  wicked  world,  and  as  the  mother  gazes  upon  its 
sinless  form,  she  firmly  resolves,  and  the  father  assents, 
that  the  lessons  of  temperance,  morality,  and  truth, 
shall  early  and  faithfully  be  instilled  into  its  young 
heart,  and  that  no  effort  shall  be  wanting  to  rear  it  for 
usefulness  to  society  and  the  world. 

A  few  years  pass  away,  but  during  this  time  the  mind 
of  that  child  has  not  been  inactive.  It  has  been  allowed 
to  mingle  with  others  of  its  age ;  its  range  of  observa 
tion  has  been  growing  wider  and  still  wider  since  it  left 
the  arms  of  its  mother ;  its  busy  feet  have  been  active 
to  over-step  a  little  the  limits  which  have  been  carefully 
assigned  it.  A  second  and  third  child  have  since  beeu 
given,  and  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  the  parents  conse 
quently  increased.  There  are  three,  now,  instead  of 
one,  over  which  parental  guardianship  is  to  be  exercised, 
and  perhaps  the  business  and  cares  of  life  have  increased 


54  ARE   YOU   A   PARENT  ? 

three  fold  in  other  respects.  Now  neglect  begins  to 
show  itself,  and  the  sad  effect  of  this  neglect  is  too  soon 
apparent  in  the  oldest  child ;  and  his  influence  upon  the 
younger  children  is  of  a  depressing,  rather  than  an  ele 
vating  character.  Parental  neglect  opens  the  way  for 
evil  influence  from  another  source.  The  child  seeks 
companionship,  and  too  frequently  finds,  in  grown  up 
persons,  of  vicious  inclinations  and  habits,  teachers, 
whose  instruction  is  of  the  most  fatal  character.  To 
all  parents  let  us  say : — Beware  lest  others  corrupt  the 
.trusting  hearts  of  your  children,  and  lead  them  away 
from  the  paths  of  rectitude  ;  lest  others  sow  tares  among 
the  wheat  of  innocence  and  virtue.  The  unoccupied 
minds  of  your  children  are  fields  in  which  duty  calls 
you  to  labour ;  and  if  you  omit  to  teach  them  the  great 
lessons  of  self-denial,  if  you  fail  to  impress  upon  their 
minds  and  hearts  a  supreme  regard  for  truth  and  virtue, 
you  commit  them  to  the  boisterous  ocean  of  life  without 

w 

a  rudder,  liable  to  be  wrecked  at  every  gale.  We  urge 
it  as  a  duty  incumbent  on  parents  to  give  their  children 
"line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept;"  not  continuing 
for  a  month  nor  a  year  only,  but  until  mature  age  re 
moves  them  from  parental  guardianship.  Thus  you  will 
discharge  a  duty  which,  if  faithfully  attended  to,  will 
insure  you  the  lasting  gratitude  and  respect  of  your  off 
spring,  who  will  "  rise  up  and  call  you  blessed." 


CHRISTMAS  EYE  AND  CHRISTMAS  MATINS. 

A  LITTLE  cottage  stood  in  a  dark  pine  wood.  It 
a  wild  December  evening,  and  the  snow  fell  in  large 
flakes  on  the  low  roof,  and  on  the  forest  around.  Light, 
however,  shone  from  its  little  window,  and  lighted  up 
the  pine-trees  which  stretched  forth  their  snow-laden 
branches  towards  the  casement,  and  lit  up  the  dismal 
wood  outside,  where  the  wolf  sat  and  cried,  hu,  hu,  hu ! 

The  fire  blazed  merrily  within  the  little  one-roomed 
cottage,  and  merrily  curled  the  blue  smoke  as  it  rose 
from  the  chimney,  and  fire  sparks  danced  about  with 
the  snow-flakes  which  giddily  tumbled  down  the  chimney 
into  the  pan  of  meal  porridge  which  stood  and  muttered 
over  the  fire,  and  thus  they  first  tasted  of  the  Christmas 
entertainment.  For  it  was  Christmas  porridge  which 
now  stood  and  boiled  on  the  hearth ;  and  this  was  no 
other  than  Christmas  eve,  and  at  this  very  time,  food 
was  preparing  for  the  whole  of  the  holidays.  It  was 
not  food  for  the  rich  man's  table,  of  that  you  may  bo 
sure  ;  it  was  only  for  a  peasant  woman,  and  she  a  widow, 
who,  with  her  children,  lived  here.  Nevertheless,  she 
was  about  to  celebrate  Christmas  in  the  best  way  she 
could,  and  that  was  not  to  be  despised,  either.  She  had 
bought  for  herself  three  pounds  of  meat,  and  this  wag 
now  boiling  famously  with  parsley  and  celery,  and  pro 
mising  to  make  the  most  savory  soup,  together  with 
some  delicious  cabbage  for  Christmas  day.  A  piece  of 


56  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS   MATINS. 

Btoek-fish  also  was  lying  in  its  pan,  and  was  all  in  an 
agitation,  as  if  from  delight  of  its  own  excellence. 

On  the  table  in  the  cottage  there  already  stood  the 
Christmas  cake,  and  the  Christmas  goblin,*  that  won 
derful  beast  which  seems  to  say,  "  If  you  come  here  I 
will  gore  you  with  my  long,  long  horn !" 

And  thus  would  the  Christmas  goblin  stand  through 
the  whole  of  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  make  a  great 
show  among  the  Christmas  meats,  and  then,  when  this 
festival  time  was  over,  it  would  be  laid,  together  with 
the  Christmas  cake,  in  a  chest  where  it  would  repose 
until  spring  came,  and  the  ploughing  began,  and  then 
they  would  take  it  and  chop  it  to  pieces,  because  the 
Christmas  goblin  is  a  hard  piece  of  clay,  and  give  it  to 
the  beasts  of  burden,  to  the  oxen  and  horses,  which  have 
to  work  in  the  fields,  and  which,  it  was  believed,  would 
derive  from  this  Christmas  cake  and  goblin,  such  strength, 
and  such  an  inclination  for  labour,  as  nobody  can  believe. 
Hence  there  would  be  abundant  crops  in  the  barns,  a  deal 
of  grist  for  the  mill,  and  plenty  of  bread  in  the  cupboard ; 
and  all  this  would  be  caused  by  the  Christmas  goblin — 
that  wonderful  beast ! 

Two  children,  a  girl  and  a  boy,  jumped  about  the 
room,  and  could  hardly  contain  their  joy  on  account  of 
Christmas  eve,  and  the  Christmas  goblin,  and  the  Christ 
inas  meats  which  were  cooking  on  the  hearth,  which  filled 
the  whole  room  with  their  delicious  odour,  and  on  account 

*  The  Christmas  knse,  vrhich,  for  lack  of  a  better  word,  I 
tr-inslate  i/»blin,  does  not  represent  an  evil  spirit,  but  is  merely 
the  rud«  figure  of  some  domestic  animal,  covered  with  plaited 
or  tvvi.ste-1  straw. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS.  5< 

of  (lie  Christmas  matins,  at  which  they  were  to  be  pre 
s<>:)t  with  their  mother.  Brother  Peter  was  to  drive 
them  in  the  sledge  with  Polle;  the  children  had  never 
yet  been  out  to  Christmas  matins,  and  could  not  imagine 
what  they  were  like,  but  they  had  heard  that  they  were 
something  very  grand  and  beautiful,  and  they  were  quite 
sure  that  they  were  so,  and  moreover,  that  they  were 
prodigiously  amusing. 

Peter,  however,  stood  cutting  firewood  for  baking, 
and  thought  to  himself  that  they  were  not  at  all  amus 
ing.  The  mother  stood  just  by  the  hearth,  and  busy. 
Why  did  she  stand  so  close  to  the  hearth,  and  turn  her 
face  from  the  happy  children  ?  The  flames  on  the  hearth 
saw  why  :  they  saw  that  her  countenance  was  not  happy, 
and  that  there  were  tears  upon  her  cheeks.  Why  did 
she  turn  her  face  away  from  the  children  ?  Because  she 
would  not  cast  a  shade  on  their  happiness.  She  could 
not  help  it,  however;  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  her 
husband,  who  died  two  months  before,  and  how  happy 
she  wras  last  Christmas,  when  he  was  alive,  and  how  kind 
he  was,  and  how  he  comforted  her  in  his  last  moments, 
and  said,  that  if  it  were  necessary  that  either  husband 
or  wife  must  be  removed  by  death,  how  much  better  it 
was  that  it  should  be  the  husband,  because  the  wife 
could  look  after  the  children  so  much  better  than  he 
could. 

The  wife,  however,  now  felt  her  lot  to  be  a  very  heavy 
one,  and  had  many  an  anxiety  for  the  future,  and  most 
of  all  on  account  of  the  eldest  son,  her  step-son  Peter, 
who  hitherto  had  been  out  at  service,  but  who  had  now 
come  home,  sincf  the  father's  death,  to  help  the  mother 


*>  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

in  performing  the  village  service.*  And  now,  precisely 
this  very  evening,  when  the  mother  had  resolved  for  the 
sake  of  the  sacred  time,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  children, 
to  put  away  all  anxious  thoughts,  precisely  now  have 
they  all  come  thick  upon  her,  as  thick  and  unceasing  as 
the  snow-flakes,  and  when  she  shook  them  off,  behold  ! 
there  they  were  again  the  next  moment,  and  made  her 
heart  so  heavy — so  very  heavy !  It  was,  as  it  were, 
under  an  evil  spell. 

But  the  children,  little  Erik  and  Maja,  they  could 
think  about  nothing  that  was  gloomy. 

"  Nay,  only  look  at  the  goblin,  Maja  !  See  how  he 
glares  at  you  with  his  big  eyes  !  Take  care  !  he  will 
gore  you  if  you  only  touch  him.  He  says,  '  If  you 
come  here  I  will  run  you  through  with  my  long,  long 
horn !'  " 

"  Nay,  do  you  believe  that  he  will  gore  me  ?  Do  you 
really  believe  that  he  is  alive  ?  Ah,  how  good  that  meat 
smc-lls  !  Will  it  soon  be  ready,  mother?  May  we  soon 
go  to  Cowslip,  and  tell  her  that  it  is  Christmas  eve,  and 
look  at  the  stars  ?"f 

Yes,  the  supper  was  now  quite  ready.  The  mother 
lighted  a  candle  in  the  lanthorn,  and  around  the  candle 
she  put  a  grand  paper  star,  which  the  candle  lit  up,  and 

*  The  torpare,  or  cottager  of  Sweden,  is  hound  to  do  a  certain 
quantity  of  work  for  his  landlord,  in  return  for  the  small  portion 
of  land  which  he  holds  from  him. 

f  These  are  Swedish  peasant  customs :  they  tell  the  cows  and 
Other  animals,  that  Christinas  is  come,  and  passing  a  light  hefuro 
their  eyes,  see,  as  they  fancy,  the  star  which  indicated  tho  friusa 
in  which  the  Saviour  lay. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS   MATINS.  59 

which,  in  its  turn,  lit  up  the  candle.  The  children  then 
took  each  their  bread-cake,  and  the  mother  filled  a  jug 
of  new  brewed  Christmas  ale,  and  with  the  lanthorn  in 
her  hand,  went  out  to  the  stable-yard  to  let  the  creatures 
know  that  it  was  Christmas. 

The  demure  Mrs.  Cowslip,  the  cow,  was  thinking 
about  nothing ;  she  was  standing  in  her  stall,  chewing 
her  cud,  as  the  door  opened,  and  a  light  flashed  into  her 
eyes.  She  turned  towards  that  side,  and  made  a  low 
moaning,  in  token  that  she  recognised  those  who  had 
entered,  and  that  they  were  welcome.  But  when  the 
children  in  their  zeal  sprang  forward,  and  gave  her 
pieces  of  their  bread,  and  screamed  into  both  her  ears, 
"  It  is  now  Christinas,  Cowslip  !"  she  stepped  hastily 
backwards,  shook  her  head  violently,  and  stared  as  if 
she  would  say,  "  Nay,  but  that  is  something  out  of  the 
common  way!"  and  looked  quite  confounded. 

But  as  Cowslip  was  a  very  rational  and  intelligent 
cow,  she  soon  collected  her  faculties,  extended  her  nose, 
^melt  at  her  bread,  took  it  into  her  mouth,  and  chewed 
it  with  an  excellent  relish,  supped  up  a  good  draught  of 
Christmas  ale,  and  appeared  quite  satisfied  with  Christ 
mas.  When  the  mother  had  strown  her  a  bed  of  fresh 
straw,  and  given  her  an  armful  of  the  very  best  and 
finest  hay  from  the  rack,  she  said,  "  God  keep  thee  now, 
my  darling ;  thou  now  hast  had  Christmas  eve!"  At 
these  words,  Cowslip  seemed  rightly  to  comprehend  the 
matter,  and  with  a  great  fragrant  lock  of  hay  in  her 
mouth,  she  laid  herself  easily  down  again,  that  she 
might  the  better  reflect,  upon  which  she  stared  at  the 
light,  ind  had  her  own  musings  about  the  star?,  which 


00  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

the  children  tried  to  make  her  observant  of.  But  the 
only  reply  she  made  was  by  a  gentle  lowing.  After 
that  they  carried  the  light  to  the  stable,  that  it  might 
ehine  upon  Polle,  and  that  they  might  give  him  a  taste 
of  Christmas  bread,  and  announce  to  him  that  it  was 
now  Christmas. 

Polle  pointed  his  ears,  and  lifted  his  head ;  expanded 
his  nostrils,  and  neighed  with  animation,  as  if  he  wished 
to  make  it  known  that  he  expected  this  intelligence,  and 
that  it  was  welcome  to  him. 

The  sheep  bleated,  and  licked  the  hands  that  gave 
them  their  Christmas  entertainment.  It  was  so  good, 
so  very  good ! 

As  for  the  two  little  pigs,  they  were  quite  out  of 
their  senses  when  their  turn  came ;  they  leaped  about, 
screeched,  and  tumbled  one  over  the  other,  so  that  no 
thing  rational  could  be  done  with  them.  They  were 
regularly  crazy  with  joy. 

After  this  the  mother  and  her  children  returned  to 
the  cottage.  The  son,  Peter,  was  also  there.  He  was 
a  tall  youth  of  sixteen,  with  a  dark  and  strongly-marked 
countenance.  The  mother  cast  an  anxious  glance  upon 
him.  Since  she  had  come  into  the  family,  she  had  had 
a  deal  of  trouble  with  his  obstinate  and  discontented 
temper,  which  appeared  to  have  become  worse  since  his 
father's  death. 

And  this  evening,  when  the  mother  had  desired  him 
to  chop  wood  for  Christmas,  he  had  replied,  "I  must  do 
everything!"  and,  as  he  went  out,  he  banged  the  door 
with  such  violence,  that  the  earthenware  cups  and  dishea 
upon  the  shelf  jingled  and  shook  a  long  time  afterwards. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS.  61 

That  answer  grieved  the  mother,  who  well  knew  that 
she  never  spared  herself,  and  never  required  much  from 
him. 

He  now  sat  down  with  his  arms  propped  on  the  table, 
and  never  seemed  to  observe  that  the  mother  was  setting 
out  the  supper,  and  that  she  had  done  everything  so 
well. 

But  when  they  were  all  seated  at  the  table,  and  the 
mother  had  poured  out  the  Christmas  ale,  the  little  ones 
glanced  at  each  other,  and  then  at  their  mother  with  a 
roguish  look  that  seemed  to  say,  "Now  it  is  coming !" 

And  with  that  the  mother  lifted  her  glass,  and  the 
little  ones  their  wooden  mugs,  and  all  three  at  once  ex 
claimed, 

"Your  health,  Peter!" 

Peter  looked  up,  and  seemed  almost  as  much  astonish 
ed  as  Cowslip  herself,  when  they  told  her  that  it  war 
Christmas. 

"  And  all  happiness  to  you  on  your  birthday,  for 
upon  this  evening  you  were  born,"  added  the  mother. 

To  which  Peter  replied,  with  a  look  of  displeasure, 
"  That  is  nothing  to  drink  one's  health  about,  or  to  wish 
one  luck  about,  either  !  It  would  have  been  better  to 
have  been  unborn  !" 

"That  is  a  sinful  word,  my  son,"  replied  the  mother, 
severely.  "  When  God  gives  health  and  strength  to  bear, 
to  strive,  and  to  work " 

"Nay,  but  why  must  one  strive  and  work?"  inter 
rupted  Peter. 

"My  dear  lad,  what  questions  you  ask!"  said  the 
mother  ;  "  must  not  people  live  ?" 


02  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS   MATINS. 

"And  why  must  they  live?"  asked  Peter,  again. 

The  mother  could  not  instantly  find  an  answer  to  this 
question  ;  it  distressed  her;  but  the  lad  often  made  use 
of  such  expressions  as  left  a  great  weight  upon  her 
mind ;  and  as  she  was  now  silent,  Peter  continued : — 

"  When  one  has  neither  father  nor  mother,  nor  any 
in  the  world  to  live  for,  it  would  be  just  as  well  if  one 
were  dead  ;  then  one  should  be  rid  of  all  one's  trouble." 

"Am  I  not  your  mother,  Peter?"  said  the  mother, 
and  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  only  my  step-mother  !"  said  Peter,  immov 
ably,  and  rose  up  from  the  table. 

This  wounded  the  mother  more  than  anything  else, 
because  she  knew  in  her  own  mind  that  her  heart  had 
always  been  full  of  tenderness  and  maternal  affection 
towards  her  step-son,  and  that  she  did  not  deserve  this 
unkindness  from  him. 

But  she  could  not  say  anything  now,  nor  look  vexed, 
because  it  was  Christmas  eve. 

The  little  ones  did  not  understand  what  was  amiss  with 
their  brother.  Their  mouths  were  waiting  for  the  good 
soup,  and  they  could  not  imagine  that  any  one  could  be 
better  off  than  they  were.  When  the  mother  saw  that 
their  appetites  were  somewhat  appeased,  she  proposed 
that  they  should  put  aside  a  portion  of  their  supper  for 
old  Alle,  in  the  poor-house,  which  delighted  them,  and 
therefore  the  mother  tied  up  a  part  of  their  meat,  ami 
of  their  bread-cakes,  in  a  clean  blue  handkerchief,  and 
Bet  it  on  a  shelf  till  the  next  morning,  when  they  should 
take  it  with  them  when  they  went  out  for  Christmas 
matins.  Peter,  however,  contributed  nothing  :  his  court- 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS.  6" 

tenance  was  sullen,  and  before  long  he  rose  from  the 
table,  and  went  to  bed  without  saying  "good-night." 

The  little  ones,  also,  soon  lay  side  by  side,  on  a  largo 
sheaf  of  golden  straw,  which  they  had  brought  in  for 
Christmas,  because,  according  to  popular  belief,  people 
must  both  sleep  and  dance  upon  straw  at  Christinas,  if 
they  would  do  right. 

The  children  did  not  undress  themselves,  that  they 
might  be  ready  all  the  sooner  next  morning,  when  they 
would  be  called  for  the  Christmas  matins.  Each  took  a 
white  handkerchief,  which  they  laid  under  their  heads, 
and  thus  fell  asleep,  side  by  side,  while  the  firelight 
flickered  upon  them,  and  kissed  their  very  cheeks,  which 
shone  out  quite  beautifully  upon  the  golden-coloured 
wheat  straw. 

Last  of  all,  the  mother  also  went  to  bed,  but  not  until 
she  had  set  everything  in  order  in  the  room,  and  washed 
up  the  dishes. 

But  though  she  now  lay  in  bed,  she  could  not  sleep, 
because  she  had  uneasy  thoughts,  and  she  heard  how 
Peter  turned  and  seemed  uneasy  in  his  bed,  as  if  he  could 
not  sleep  either.  At  one  time  she  thought  that  he  wept, 
and  she  considered  with  herself,  "  should  I  now  get  up 
and  go  to  him,  and  give  him  a  quiet  kiss,  he  would  then, 
perhaps,  understand  that  I  love  him,  although  I  am  not 
his  real  mother  ;  and  more  particularly,  as  it  is  Christ 
mas  e>e,  and  everybody  ought  to  part  friends.  " 

Presently,  Peter  seemed  to  be  quite  still,  and  then  slio 
thought,  "  he  is  gone  to  sleep,  and  I  should  only  disturb 
him."  She  therefore  lay  quiet  herself,  and  turned  her 
thoughts  to  God,  and  prayed  him  to  change  the  unhappy 


61  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

temper  of  the  youth.  She  prayed  for  a  blessing  on  him, 
and  on  the  beloved  little  ones.  With  that,  she  turned 
round  to  look  at  them,  and  to  see  how  the  firelight 
flickered  over,  and  kissed  their  rosy  countenances,  for 
the  fire  burned  in  the  hearth  through  the  Christmas 
night.  And  then  she  thought  about  all  the  animals, 
how  they  had  their  Christmas  provender,  and  how  com 
fortable  they  were ;  and  the  thoughts  of  them  did  her 
good,  and  whilst  she  was  thinking  of  them,  and  gazing 
at  her  little  ones  by  the  firelight,  she  went  to  sleep  her 
self. 

When  she  again  woke,  it  was  pitch-dark  in  the  room, 
and  quite  cold  ;  and  she  felt  a  great  weight  on  her  heart, 
and  in  her  head  also.  It  was  as  if  a  large,  heavy  tear 
had  collected,  and  could  not  find  vent,  but  lay  there  as 
heavy  as  lead.  She  thought  upon  the  death  of  her  hus 
band,  upon  the  bitter  temper  of  her  son,  and  how  soli 
tary  she  herself  was  in  the  world ;  and  then  Peter's 
words  occurred  to  her,  "why  should  people  live?"  and 
she  felt  as  if  she  would  gladly  not  rise,  but  be  quiet 
for  ever. 

Spite  of  all  this,  however,  she  rose,  and  lighted  the 
fire  as  usual,  and  set  on  the  coffee,  for  although  she  was 
not  one  of  those  extravagant  women  who  drink  coffee 
every  day,  yet  now  at  Christmas  time,  everybody  must 
have  coffee ;  the  whole  household  must  drink  coffee  ; 
that  was  a  matter  of  course. 

She  then  lighted  the  candle  in  the  Christmas-tree  by 
the  window,  which  she  had  made  ready  the  evening 
before,  for  the  children,  and  that  done,  she  woke  them. 

"Christmas  matins,  children!     Christmas  matins!" 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS   MATINS.  65 

The  little  ones  started  up,  quite  bewildered ;  rubbed 
their  eyes,  opened  them  Avith  an  effort,  saw  the  light 
burning  in  the  pine-tree,  and  then  it  came  to  their 
remembrance  that  it  was  Christmas,  and  that  they  were 
going  to  morning  service.  And  with  that  they  leapt  up, 
snd  were  quite  wakeful. 

They  all  drank  their  coffee,  Peter  as  well  as  the  rest, 
and  then  Peter,  who,  as  usual,  was  silent  and  out  of 
humour,  went  to  put  Polle  in  the  sledge. 

When  the  mother  came  out  of  the  cottage,  dressed  in 
her  holiday  attire,  with  her  hymn  book  in  her  hand,  and 
two  little  ones  at  her  side,  she  saw  the  moon  and  the 
morning  star,  standing  brightly  above  the  pine  wood, 
and  shining  beautifully  in  the  frosty  early  morning,  and 
upon  the  new-fallen  snow.  The  sight  did  her  heart 
good. 

"How  beautifully,"  thought  she,  "after  all,  has  God 
made  every  thing  for  mankind."  She  inhaled  the  fresh, 
cold,  but  not  very  cold,  winter  air,  and  felt  her  spirits 
enlivened  by  so  doing. 

Polle  was  in  the  most  cheerful  humour.  lie  neighed, 
and  pointed  his  ears,  and  tossed  his  handsome  head,  and 
pawed  the  sward  with  his  foot,  and  was  quite  impatient 
to  be  off. 

Before  long,  the  widow  sat  with  her  two  little  ones  in 
the  sledge,  and  Peter  stood  between  them  and  drove. 
Polle's  bells  jingled  merrily  as  they  sped  along  through 
wood  and  meadow;  the  morning  star  shone  upon  the 
white,  snowy  fields,  and  the  grim  wood.  It  was  u 
beautiful  and  a  cheering  sight. 

The  little  ones  were  full  of  talk. 
6 


06  CHRISTMAS    EVE    AND    CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

"Nay,  look! — nay,  look.  There's  a  liglit  burning  at 
Storgal,  a  liglit  in  her  opposite  window !  And  l^ok ! 
old  Britta  on  the  hill  has  got  a  light  too!  And  look 
there,  a  long,  long  way  off  in  the  wood,  there  shines  a 
light !  And  look,  look !  Nay,  that  is  the  very  best  of 
all, — those  candles  in  the  window  at  the  gate-house. 
See,  it  is  lighted  the  whole  way!  Nay,  how  grand  it 
is !  Is  it  ever  grander  than  this  at  Christmas  matins, 
mother?" 

"You  are  two  little  simpletons!"  said  the  mother. 
"  Christmas  matins  are  grander  in  another  way." 

By  this  time  there  were  a  great  many  other  people 
on  the  road,  both  driving  and  walking,  on  their  way  to 
church.  There  was  quite  a  procession  of  sledges,  and 
such  a  jingling  of  bells  as  was  delightful  to  hear,  and 
the  children  had  enough  to  do  to  listen  and  to  ask 
questions. 

They  had  by  this  time  arrived  at  an  open  tract  of 
country,  and  just  before  them,  with  its  spire  pointing 
towards  heaven,  and  the  dark  green  wood  behind  it, 
stood  the  church  with  lights  streaming  from  every  win 
dow,  as  if  within  were  a  sea  of  light.  And  at  that  very 
moment  the  church-bells  began  to  ring. 

The  children  were  hushed  into  silence.  They  felt  a 
solemnity  come  over  them.  They  did  not  exactly  know 
how  they  felt. 

They  soon  dismounted.  The  church-bells  rung,  and 
liglit  streamed  out  of  the  church,  but  all  around  it  was 

D  7 

dark  and  night-like.  Along  the  whole  extent  of  the 
church  walls  on  every  side,  sledges  were  drawn  up  close 
together,  the  horses  in  which  were  eating  hay.  Among 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS.  67 

these  a  place  was  found  for  Polle ;  a  covering  was  thrown 
over  him,  and  between  him  and  the  church  wall  was  laid 
a  good  bundle  of  the  very  best  hay — real  Christmas 
provender.  Of  this  he  ate ;  anybody  might  have  heard 
how  excellent  he  thought  it. 

The  widow  and  the  children  walked  across  the  church 
yard. 

"Do  you  remember,  children,"  said  she  to  them, 
"what  I  told  you  about  the  Christmas  matins,  and 
what  they  mean?" 

"They  mean,"  stammered  Erik,  "they  mean  that — 
that  God  who — who" — "Who,"  interrupted  the  mo 
ther,  "  since  the  beginning  of  the  world  sent  teachers 
and  wise  men  to  mankind,  to — to, — now,  Erik  !" 

"To  teach  them  his  will,"  said  Erik. 

"Yes,  right,"  continued  the  mother;  "and  last  of  all, 
he  came  himself  down  to  them,  and  condescended  to  be 
born  on  earth — " 

"Yes,  as  a  little  child!"  exclaimed  Maja. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  mother,  "that  he  might  pass 
through  life  with  them  as  a  brother,  and  might  teach 
them  rightly  to  understand  his  disposition,  and  how  kind 
he  meant  by  us  all.  And  that  is  he  whom  we  call  the 
Son  of  God,  our  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ." 

"  And  it  is  his  birth  which  we  celebrate  in  the  Christ 
mas  matins,"  exclaimed  Erik,  now  very  certain  of  his 
subject. 

With  these  words  they  entered  the  church,  and  all  the 
congregation  sang, 

"Hail  to  the  glorious  morning  hourl" 


68  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

The  children,  however,  could  not  think  about  singing 
They  could  do  nothing  but  stare  about  them  and  wonder. 
There  was  so  much  light !  They  could  scarcely  sec  for 
light.  All  the  four  grand  chandeliers  hung  down  from 
the  roof  blazing  with  lights.  Upon  the  altar  lights  were 
burning  in  tall  candlesticks.  Upon  the  pulpit  stood 
lights,  and  gilded  branches  extended  from  the  walls, 
holding  clusters  of  lights,  and  a  light  burned  by  every 
branch,  so  that  the  great  aisle  was  like  an  alley  of  flame. 
Whichever  way  they  looked,  they  saw  light,  light,  light! 

The  benches  were  crammed  full  of  people.  Head 
was  close  to  head.  The  children  had  never  seen  so 
many  people  together  before,  and  they  thought  they 
should  never  find  seats.  At  last,  however,  they  did,  on 
a  bench  where  the  people  kindly  made  room  for  them. 
A  respectable  old  woman  took  Maja  on  her  knee,  and 
the  mother  took  Erik  on  hers.  And  thus  they  all  were 
seated. 

The  children  looked  about  incessantly,  and  stared  at 
all  the  grandeur  and  splendour  around  them.  But  the 
mother  soon  forgot  every  outward  object,  for  just  then 
ehe  opened  her  hymn-book,  to  join  in  singing  the  fol 
lowing  verse  of  the  hymn  : 

"His  tears,  like  ours,  will  fall  as  rain, 
A  mourner,  he  will  us  sustain 

With  strength  from  heaven  imparted; 
He  will  make  known  his  Father's  will, 
And  mercy's  holy  balm  instil 
To  soothe  the  broken-hearted." 

With  this  the  heavy  leaden  weight  seemed  to  melt  away 
from  her  soul,  and  her  tears  began  to  flow  more  easily. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS.  '69 

She  felt  at  once  such  a  lightness  and  such  a  strength  within 
her,  that  it  seemed  as  if  from  this  time  nothing  would  bo 
too  heavy  for  her  to  bear. 

The  clergyman  now  ascended  the  pulpit,  and  what  a 
sermon  he  preached!  The  widow  had  never  heard  any 
one  speak  in  that  way  before.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  he 
spoke  to  her  out  of  the  warmth  of  her  own  innermost 
heart.  And  every  single  word  seemed  like  a  true  word 
of  God,  so  full  of  beauty  and  grandeur  was  it.  To  her 
it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world,  and  the  whole  of  life, 
became  bright  through  it.  It  was  as  if  it  were  Christmas 
matins  within  her  soul. 

And  when  she  looked  at  Peter,  she  saw  that  he  also 
listened  attentively,  with  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the 
preacher ;  and  from  this,  she  hoped  for  a  good  result, 
more  especially,  as  with  the  new  year  Peter  was  to  begin 
to  read  with  this  same  clergyman,  preparatory  to  his 
confirmation. 

"When  the  service  was  ended,  it  was  full  daylight, 
and  the  congregation  streamed  hastily  out.  Before 
long,  people  might  be  seen  on  all  sides,  walking  briskly 
along,  driving  on  the  road,  or  ascending  the  hill,  striving 
who  should  first  reach  home ;  for,  according  to  popular 
belief,  they  who  arrive  first  at  home  on  Christmas  morn 
ing,  will  have  their  harvest  first  housed  in  the  autumn. 
Though  what  connexions  there  are  between  these  things, 
I  know  not. 

The  widow  and  her  children  went  into  the  poor-house, 
and  the  children  themselves  gave  old  Alle  the  meat  and 
the  bread  which  they  had  saved  for  him.  For  this  they 


70  CHRISTMAS    EVE   AND    CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

received  the  old  man's  blessing,  and  they  felt,  therefore, 
greatly  pleased  at  what  they  had  done. 

In  the  mean  time,  Peter  had  been  getting  Polle  and 
the  sledge  ready.  Thus  they  drove  home,  thinking  by 
the  way  of  the  delicious  warm  cabbage  which  they  should 
have  for  dinner,  for  they  all  felt  hungry  and  cold. 

And  how  excellent  were  the  meat  and  the  cabbage 
which  they  had  for  dinner,  it  is  not  in  my  power  to 
describe ;  this  only  is  certain,  that  the  king's  cabbage 
could  not  have  tasted  better  to  him  than  theirs  did  to 
them. 

In  the  afternoon  they  had  also  a  cup  of  coffee,  with 
cabbage,  in  honour  of  Christmas  day,  and  that,  too, 
tasted  most  excellently ;  and  everybody  was  very  cheer 
ful,  the  widow  as  well  as  the  rest ;  for  she  saw  that  the 
countenance  of  her  elder  son  had  undergone  a  change. 

In  the  twilight,  when  they  all  sat  together,  warm  and 
comfortable,  and  when  the  fire  blazed  merrily  on  the 
hearth,  and  lighted  up  the  whole  cottage,  the  mother 
said, 

"Now,  I  wonder  whether  either  of  my  little  ones  can 
remember  anything  of  what  the  clergyman  said  in  the 
morning  about  the  Saviour,  and  what  he  taught  to  man 
kind?" 

But,  ah  me  !  The  poor  little  ones  remembered  nothing, 
not  a  word;  had  understood  not  a  word — nay,  had  not 
even  heard  a  syllable  ! 

"  There  was  such  a  deal  of  light !"  they  said. 

"But  you,  Peter,"  said  the  mother,  and  looked  at 
him  with  confidence,  "  I  am  certain  that  you  can  help 


CHRISTMAS   EVE    AND   CHRISTMAS   MATINS.  71 

me  to  recollect  something  of  what  the  pastor  said — you 
can  remember  it  certainly." 

"0,  yes,"  said  Peter,  and  his  eyes  brightened,  and 
added  he,  after  a  moment,  "  I  now  know  how  people 
should  live." 

"  Yes,  and  why  ?"  said  the  mother  looking  kindly  at 
her  son,  and  wishing  to  try  him. 

"  That  they  may  follow  after  the  ^Saviour,  and  labour 
for  the  world's  redemption,"  said  Peter,  and  raised  his 
head  ;  "  and  high  and  low,  and  rich  and  poor,  can  alike 
labour  in  this  good  work  on  earth." 

"And  how  must  that  be  done?"  inquired  the  mother 
as  before. 

"By  becoming  better,  more  God-fearing,  more  right 
eous  men." 

"Yes,  my  son,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  joyfully,  "so 
did  I  also  understand  the  words  of  the  clergyman.  By 
becoming  so,  by  living  in  Christ,  we  help  not  only  to 
extend  God's  kingdom  on  earth,  but  become  also  his 
labourers  in  the  creation  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth,  where  bliss  shall  abide  for  ever.  This  is  a  great 
saying,  my  son,  and  can  make  the  heart  beat  high  and 
free  even  in  a  mean  hut.  And  this  have  I  known  and 
believed  from  my  youth  upwards.  But  I  have  never 
heard  it  put  rightly  into  words  until  to-day." 

Peter  was  affected  to  tears ;  he  extended  his  hand  to 
his  mother,  and  said  with  deep  feeling,  "  Mother,  forgive 
me  that  I  have  caused  you  sorrow  !  From  this  time  it 
shall  be  otherwise  !" 

And  from  that  time  it  did  become  otherwise  with 
Peter;  not  that  he  ever  became  very  communicative, 


72  CHRISTMAS   EVE   AND   CHRISTMAS    MATINS. 

or  of  a  very  cheerful  temper,  but  he  became  very  indus 
trious,  and  very  desirous  of  doing  right,  and  everybody 
grew  fond  of  him. 

It  was  evident  now  that  Peter  began  to  take  pleasure 
in  life ;  at  least,  he  never  looked  sour  or  sullen.  His 
whole  appearance  was  changed ;  nay,  it  often  looked  as 
if  something  shone  within  him,  and  so  said  his  littlo 
brother  and  sister. 

"Now  it  is  Christmas  matins  with  Peter,"  they  would 
Bay. 

Many  Christmas  matins  have  since  kindled  their 
lights;  many  a  hard  Christmas  goblin  has  looked  savage 
upon  the  Christmas  board ;  has  since  then  been  shut  up 
in  a  chest — thence  brought  out  again  to  give  strength  to 
the  beasts  at  plough.  Yes,  many  a  Christmas  has,  since 
that  Christmas  morning,  come  and  gone ;  but  the  light 
hat  then  was  kindled  for  the  mother,  has  never  been 
extinguished. 

Peter  now  lives  as  a  peasant  in  Storgal,  and  his  mother 
lives  with  him,  and  he  likes  to  tell  his  friends  what  a 
sluggish  and  hard-tempered  lad  he  was,  and  about  the 
Christmas  matins  which  produced  such  a  change  on  him  ; 
and  how,  since  then,  he  has  had  light,  and  strength,  and 
pleasure  in  all  his  work,  and  how  everything  prospers  in 
his  hands. 

Thus  Peter  celebrates  every  Christmas  eve  as  his 
mother  taught  him.  At  Christmas  matins  he  may  be 
seen  before  any  one  else ;  and  as  fcr  the  Christinas 
goblin,  he  never  forgets  that ! 


MANAGING  CHILDREN. 

"  My  soul,  look  well  around  thee  ere  thou  give  thy  timid  infant 
tin  to  sorrows." 

ONE  of  the  hot  days  of  the  last  few  weeks,  it  was  my 
lot  to  be  riding  in  the  cars  a  long  day's  journey.  When 
we  started  in  the  early  morning  the  travelling  was  de 
lightful.  The  country  looked  green  and  bright  with  the 
night's  dew,  and  the  soft,  cool  morning  breeze  refreshed 
us  as  it  blew  through  the  cars.  But  as  we  went  on,  the 
sun  grew  hotter  arid  hotter,  the  dust  blew  into  the  cars 
mingled  with  cinders,  and  we  all  felt  that  for  the  rest 
of  the  way  we  wera  doomed  to  discomfort.  I  tried,  with 
a  book,  to  lose  my  sense  of  the  present  trials,  but  my 
attention  was  diverted  from  reading  by  a  group  which 
occupied  the  scat  nearest  me.  It  consisted  of  a  mother, 
a  father,  and  a  little  bright-looking  boy  of  three  or  four 
years  old.  I  noticed  them  when  the  cars  first  started 
sitting  at  a  distance  from  me,  but  they  had  now  changed 
their  seats,  and  were  so  near  to  me  that  I  could  not 
avoid  both  seeing  and  hearing  all  that  was  going  on. 

"Be  quiet,  will  you?"  were  the  first  words  from  the 
mother,  said  in  an  excited  and  impatient  mai.ner.  But 
the  little  one  could  not  be  quiet.  He  had  been  travel 
ling  for  many  hours,  he  had  exhausted  all  his  means  of 
amusement,  and  eaten  cake  and  candy  till  he  could  eat 
no  more.  He  had  examined  the  cars  over  and  over 
again,  until  the  novelty  was  all  at  an  end,  and  he  waa 


<4  MANAGING    CHILDREN. 

evidently  hot  and  uncomfortable.  As  well  might  you 
tell  the  wind  to  stop  blowing,  as  to  tell  him  to  be  quiet. 
So  he  looked  at  his  mother,  and  then  began  to  tease 
and  whine,  and  to  say  that  he  was  tired  and  wanted 
some  water.  I  thought  she  would  sympathize  with  the 
little  one,  and  try  to  amuse  and  comfort  him.  But  the 
noise  evidently  irritated  her.  "If  you  are  not  still  in 
a  minute,  George  Henry,  I'll  throw  you  out  of  the 
window;  I  will  do  it."  The  child  looked  frightened 
for  a  minute,  and  seemed  to  think  it  would  be  a  terrible 
fate.  But  his  reason,  and  experience  too,  we  may  sup 
pose,  told  him  that  this  threat  would  never  be  carried 
into  execution.  He  tried  however  for  a  little  while  to 
amuse  himself  with  his  mother's  gloves,  but  they  were 
snatched  away  from  him,  and  then  he  was  evidently  com 
pelled  to  begin  again.  "Mamma,  mamma,  I'm  tired," 
and  then  came  a  louder  demonstration.  By  this  time 
the  father  had  waked  from  his  nap,  in  no  very  pleasant 
mood  it  seemed,  for  hearing  the  child's  voice,  he  imme 
diately  made  a  dive  at  him,  shook  him,  and  boxed  his 
ears  violently.  "  There  now,  stop  crying  and  be  quiet." 
But  that  was  evidently  out  of  the  question.  He  could 
not  do  it  at  once,  and  the  mother  joined  her  voice  to 
say  in  the  same  impatient,  angry  way,  "  Hush,  hush,  I 
tell  you,  or  you'll  get  it  again!"  As  soon  as  possible 
the  child  stopped  the  loud  voice,  and  cowed  doAvn  in  his 
Beat  with  a  sulky  look,  and  a  disturbed  expression  on 
his  face.  The  next  time  I  looked  he  had  fallen  asleep, 
much  to  my  satisfaction,  and  his  sleep  lasted  till  we 
were  near  our  journey's  end. 

Very  much  of  this  kind  of  treatment  of  children  is 


MANAGING    CHILDREN.  75 

there  in  the  world,  and  if  there  were  not  a  kind  Provi 
dence  watching  over  these  little  ones  to  overrule  the 
bad  influences  of  early  training,  still  smaller  than  it  is 
would  be  the  proportion  of  good  men  and  women.  How 
many  parents  there  are  who  seem  to  forget  the  tremen 
dous  responsibility  that  rests  upon  them,  the  great  work 
that  God  gave  them  to  do  when  he  put  little  children  in 
their  arms,  and  who  act,  instead,  as  if  they  sought  only 
how  to  rear  and  educate  them  with  the  least  trouble  to 
themselves.  They  seem  to  begrudge  the  time  it  takes, 
as  if  their  whole  time  were  too  much  to  give  to  the 
training  of  immortal  souls.  Oh,  the  impatience  that 
seizes  a  little  child  and  inflicts  a  punishment  in  the  heat 
of  an  angry  moment, — how  much  has  it  to  answer  for  ? 
Do  not  be  surprised  to  see  the  temper  of  your  child 
uncontrolled  as  he  grows  older.  You  have  been  teach 
ing  him  day  by  day,  from  his  infancy,  by  your  own 
impatience,  and  hasty  yielding  to  passion,  Avhen  way 
wardness  and  carelessness  have  irritated  you.  Calmly, 
and  quietly,  and  lovingly,  must  a  child  be  governed. 
If  severe  punishment  must  be  inflicted,  if  in  no  other 
way  can  obedience  be  gained,  wait  until  every  spark  of 
angry  feeling  has  left  you,  and  let  him  see  that  you  go 
about  it  solemnly  and  sadly. 

This  teaching  children  falsehood,  too,  by  unmeaning 
threats ;  what  a  store  of  trouble  is  a  parent  laying  up 
for  himself  who  does  it !  Not  in  the  smallest  degree, 
not  in  the  youngest  child,  ought  it  to  be  practised. 
The  child  will  remember  it;  he  will  look  back  a  few 
yeai-s  hence;  he  will  feel  that  it  Avas  false;  and  he  may 


76  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

say,  If  falsehood  is  justifiable  in  one  case  it  is  in 
another ;  if  in  my  mother,  in  me. 

Love  and  tenderness  go  very  far  in  the  managemejt 
of  children  ;  not  a  foolish  indulgence  that  pampers  the 
appetite  and  yields  Aveakly  to  every  foolish  desire,  but 
the  quiet  love  that  wraps  the  arms  about  the  child,  and 
lays  check  to  cheek,  and  speaks  so  softly  that  the  little 
one  feels  in  his  inmost  heart  that  he  is  blessed  by  it ; 
feels  that  he  cannot  slight  it  or  disobey  it.  The  rough 
boy  on  whom  threats  would  be  lost,  who  feels  too  proud 
to  be  afraid  of  punishment,  will  be  melted,  and  be  ready 
to  give  up  darling  plans,  by  such  a  love  as  this. 

To  educate  children  as  God  would  have  us,  to  feel  a 
hope  that  we  are  fitting  them  for  heaven,  requires  a  life 
of  watchfulness  and  prayer.  Of  watchfulness ;  lest  we, 
by  our  example,  by  yielding  to  impatience  or  selfishness, 
may  implant  in  the  souls  of  our  children,  seeds  that  in 
coming  years  will  bring  forth  bitter  fruits.  Of  prayer ; 
that  we  may  be  aided  and  strengthened  by  an  Almighty 
hand. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

IT  was  late  tea-time  at  Mr.  Merwyn's  pleasant  back 
parlour,  in  his  commodious  and  comfortable  house,  in 
Boston.  Mrs.  Merwyn  was  sitting  by  the  fire  awaiting 
the  return  of  her  husband  from  his  store.  William  and 
Anne,  the  children,  were  rudely  racing  round  the  room, 
overturning  chairs  and  stools,  and  threatening  every 
moment  to  upset  the  tea-table.  "  Stop,  children,  this 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  77 

moment,"  said  Mrs.  Merwyn.  "Anne,  open  the  door 
for  your  father;  Willie,  ring  the  bell  for  Bridget." 

"  Father  has  a  night-key,  and  he  can  open  the  door 
for  himself,"  said  Anne;  upon  which  she  commenced  a 
desperate  struggle  with  Willie,  to  recover  a  toy  he  had 
snatched  from  her. 

Mr.  Merwyn  entered  the  room  with  a  jaded,  tired 
look,  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  Soon  after,  Bridget 
came  in  with  a  plate  of  toast  in  one  hand  and  a  cream- 
pitcher  in  the  other.  The  children,  quite  beside  them 
selves  in  the  eagerness  of  their  quarrel,  ran  against 
her,  knocked  the  dish  of  toast  from  her  hand,  and  its 
contents  were  spread  on  the  carpet.  Mrs.  Merwyn  ran 
to  them,  and  seizing  them  each  in  turn,  boxed  their 
ears  soundly,  accompanying  her  castigation  with  severe 
reproaches.  "  I  never  saw  anything  like  it !  You  are 
the  worst-behaved  children  I  ever  beheld  !  You  are  the 
plagues  of  my  life !  I  wish  you  were,  both  of  you,  a 
hundred  miles  off!  I  am  sure  I  cannot  imagine  how  1 
came  to  have  such  bad  children.  Go  to  the  table  this 
minute,  and  see  if  you  can  behave  yourselves.  You 
make  it  very  pleasant  for  your  father,  who  has  been 
working  for  you  all  day,  to  come  home  and  find  the 
house  in  such  an  uproar,  and  the  carpet  spoiled,  and 
the  toast  gone."  With  such  expressions,  she  drove  the 
children  to  the  table. 

They  were  really  pretty  children,  though  pale  and 
delicate ;  but  now,  with  their  unnaturally  flushed  faces, 
dishevelled  hair,  and  angry  looks,  their  appearance  was 
anything  but  agreeable.  They  began  to  eat  in  moody 
silence.  The  parents  were  silent  also.  At  length  Mrs. 


78  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

Mcnvyn  said,  "Willie,  don't  eat  so  much  of  that  rich 
cake ;  take  some  bread  and  butter ;  and,  Anne,  stop 
helping  yourself  to  sweetmeats;  you  have  eaten  two 
saucers  full  already." 

"I  don't  like  bread  and  butter,"  said  William,  in  a 
surly  tone,  "  and  I  can't  eat  what  I  don't  like." 

Anne,  with  a  look  of  contempt  at  her  mother,  coolly 
helped  herself  to  the  last  of  the  preserves,  and  ate  them. 

The  evening  passed  as  uncomfortably  as  it  had  begun. 
When  the  tea-things  were  cleared  away,  the  study  table 
was  set  out,  for  the  children  had  lessons  to  recite  on  the 
morrow  which  must  be  learned  in  the  evening.  But 
they  were  cross  and  ill-natured  to  each  other,  and  their 
father,  after  trying  for  half  an  hour  to  read  a  pamphlet 
which  he  had  brought  home  with  him,  threw  it  aside, 
and  seated  himself  with  a  heavy  sigh  by  the  fire. 

"I  say,  mother,"  said  Willie,  "  where's  Turin?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly;  look  it  out  on  the  map." 

"  I  can't,  there's  such  a  crowd  of  little  names  here ; 
and,  what's  more,  I  won't.  I  don't  care  if  I  do  miss  in 
my  lesson.  I  have  got  so  low  in  my  class  now,  I  would 
as  lief  be  at  the  foot  as  anywhere  else." 

"  Mother,  is  good  a  noun  or  an  adjective  ?"  inquired 
Anne. 

"How  should  I  know?"  replied  the  mother.  "Can 
you  not  tell  from  the  way  in  which  it  is  used  ?" 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Anne. 

"  Study  your  rules,  then,  and  do  not  tease  me  about 
it,"  said  the  mother. 

The  books  were  put  away.  Nine  o'clock  came,  and 
the  children  left  the  room  for  bed:  Anne  complaining 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE  79 

of  a  headache,  and  upbraiding  Willie  for  breaking  her 
glass  bird. 

After  sitting  silent  for  half  an  hour,  looking  steadily 
into  the  fire,  Mr.  Mcrwyn  turned  round  to  his  wife,  who 
was  seated  near  the  table  with  her  head  upon  her  hand  : 
the  needlework  had  fallen  upon  the  floor.  "  Helen," 
said  he,  "  why  do  our  children  behave  in  the  way  they 
do?  I  want  a  cheerful,  pleasant,  orderly  home.  I 
have  built  this  house,  and  furnished  it  handsomely,  and 
I  am  sure  I  supply  you  liberally  with  every  means  of 
comfort,  and  yet  how  uncomfortable  we  are.  And  it 
all  comes  of  those  unruly  children." 

Mrs.  Merwyn  looked  up  half  angrily.  "If  the  child 
ren  are  bad,  is  it  not  partly  your  fault,  James?  Do 
you  govern  them  as  you  ought?" 

"  How  can  I?"  replied  the  husband.  "Am  I  not  at 
my  work  all  day  ?  And  must  I  spend  the  time  in  which 
I  need  a  little  relaxation,  in  reducing  a  couple  of  rebel 
lious  children  to  order  ?  They  love  me  little  enough 
now.  It  is  seldom  that  I  get  the  slightest  caress,  or 
even  a  respectful  word  from  either  of  them  ;  and  how 
would  it  be  if  I  spent  my  evenings  in  checking  and 
scolding  them  ?  I  took  tea  at  our  old  friends,  the 
Westerns,  last  evening.  Weston  is  as  busy  as  I  am,  and 
the  whole  charge  of  their  five  children  falls  upon  his 
wife ;  but,  oh  !  Helen,  it  made  my  heart  ache  to  .see 
them;  such  happy  cheerful  faces,  such  intelligent  looks, 
such  pleasant,  winning  ways;  so  quiet  and  obedient, 
and  yet  so  loving  and  affectionate  to  their  parents  and 
to  each  other !  I  used  to  hope  my  children  would  grow 
up  so ;  but  I  have  no  such  hope  now — they  grow  worse 


80  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

as  they  grow  older.  I  desire  you  will  let  them  have 
another  room  to  pass  their  evenings  in,  for  I  want  to 
have  them  out  of  my  sight."  Having  thus  spoken,  with 
a  heavy  sigh,  the  father  left  the  room  for  his  chamber. 

When  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Merwyn  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears.  The  fountains  of  feeling  seem  stirred  to  their 
inmost  depths.  At  first  she  pitied  herself;  she  was 
angry  with  her  husband  and  her  children.  She  called 
to  mind  the  fact  that  she  was  married  at  seventeen  to  a 
husband  considerably  older  than  herself.  "  And  how 
could  it  be  expected,"  thought  she,  "that  I  should  know 
anything  about  bringing  up  children  ?  I  was  a  petted, 
indulged,  half-educated  girl,  myself;  where  was  I  to  get 
the  strength,  and  the  self-denial,  and  the  perseverance 
necessary  for  this  most  difficult  task  ?  Was  it  to  be 
expected  that  I  should  give  up  every  pleasure  of  youth, 
and  think  and  work  entirely  for  others?"  As  these 
thoughts  passed  through  her  mind,  she  wept  the  more. 

Mrs.  Merwyn,  it  is  true,  was  married  too  early;  she 
had  begun  wrong.  But  she  was  a  woman  of  deep  feel 
ings,  and  earnest,  though  unformed  and  undeveloped 
purposes.  Having  exhausted  her  self-commiseration, 
her  thoughts  took  another  turn.  "  But  I  love  my  child 
ren,  and  I  love  my  husband.  I  am  their  mother.  I 
am  his  wife ;  and  do  not  nature  and  God  and  my  own 
heart  urge  me  to  a  higher  and  better  discharge  of  duty 
than  I  have  ever  yet  practised  ?  Oh  !  how  happy  I  should 
be  if  I  could  reclaim  my  children,  reform  them,  and 
establish  a  mother's  influence  over  them ;  if  I  could 
make  my  husband  happy  and  his  home  delightful ! 
What  would  I  not  sacrifice  for  this!"  Her  face  beamed 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  81 

as  she  indulged  in  these  bright  visions,  but  reflection 
brought  discouragement.  "  I  am  thirty  years  old," 
murmured  she;  "Anne  is  twelve  and  Willie  ten.  Even 
if  I  could  change  myself,  how  can. I  alter  them?  Ah! 
T  fear  it  is  a  hopeless  case." 

Mrs.  Merwyn  had  never  made  a  profession  of  re 
ligion,  though  she  had  for  some  time  entertained  a  kind 
of  doubtful  hope  of  her  spiritual  state,  and  had  practised 
an  earnest  but  irregular  habit  of  secret  prayer.  She 
now  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and  laid  all  her  sorrows, 
wishes,  hopes,  and  half-formed  resolutions,  before  the 
great  Helper  and  Comforter ;  praying  for  wisdom  and 
strength,  as  Solomon  prayed  when  intrusted  with  the 
kingdom ;  for  she  felt,  more  deeply  than  ever  before, 
that  she,  too,  had  a  high  and  holy  mission  to  fulfil,  and 
that  strength  and  guidance  from  above  were  absolutely 
necessary  to  enable  her  to  perform  her  duty.  She  rose 
with  a  feeling  new  to  herself:  a  calmness,  a  resolution, 
a  determination,  which  inspired  her  with  hope  and  con 
fidence. 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  her  old  friend,  Mrs. 
Weston,  and  made  her  the  confidant  of  her  new  feelings 
and  plans.  Mrs.  Weston  was  a  large-hearted,  strong- 
minded,  pious  woman.  She  listened  with  generous 
interest,  she  encouraged,  she  advised:  and,  after  a  con 
ference  of  three  hours,  Mrs.  Merwyn  returned  home. 
That  evening,  after  her  husband  and  children  had  re 
tired,  she  took  her  writing-desk  and  wrote  the  following 
schedule  of  resolutions : 

"  Resolved,  That  the  first  duty  of  the  day  performed 
by  me  shall  be  a  prayer  to  Almighty  God,  arid  especially 
6 


82  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

for  strength  and  wisdom,  properly  to  instruct,  guide  and 
govern  my  children. 

"Resolved,  That  I  will  never  permit  either  of  my 
children,  with  impunity,  wilfully  to  disobey  me,  or  treat 
me  with  disrespect. 

"  Resolved,  That  I  will  earnestly  strive  never  to  act 
from  an  impulse  of  passion  or  resentment ;  but  will 
endeavour  to  preserve  my  judgment  cool,  and  my  feelings 
calm,  that  I  may  clearly  see,  and  truly  perform  my  duty 
to  my  children. 

"Resolved,  That  I  will  devote  a  certain  portion  of  my 
leisure  to  daily  self-instruction,  in  order  to  be  able  pro 
perly  to  instruct  my  children. 

"Resolved,  That  I  will  watch  over  my  own  temper  at 
all  times,  cultivate  a  habit  of  cheerfulness,  and  interest 
myself  in  the  little  matters  of  my  children,  that  I  may 
thereby  gain  their  love. 

"  Resolved,  That  I  will  break  off  the  habit  of  lounging; 
that  I  will  give  up  the  reading  of  novels,  and  that  I  will 
attend  fewer  large  parties,  and  devote  the  time  which  I 
shall  thus  gain,  especially  to  pursuits  which  will  increase 
the  comfort  and  happiness  of  my  husband,  and  forward 
the  best  interests  of  my  children. 

"Resolved,  That  I  will  especially  study  the  health  of 
my  children,  reading  on  the  subject,  and  asking  advice 
of  those  who  are  more  experienced  than  myself. 

"Resolved,  That  I  will  not  yield  to  discouragement 
from  failure  in  my  first  attempts  at  reform;  but  will  per 
severe,  putting  faith  in  the  promises  of  God  to  all  those 
who  earnestly  and  faithfully  endeavour  to  do  their  duty." 

These  resolutions  looked  very  cold  and  formal  to  the 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  B3 

mother  when  she  had  clone  writing  them.  The  writing 
was  nothing;  they  were  in  her  heart;  but  she  folded  the 
paper  and  locked  it  in  her  desk,  as  a  memento,  if  she 
should  ever  feel  herself  falling  into  old  habits  of  indo 
lence  and  self-indulgence. 

The  next  morning  the  family  took  their  breakfast  as 
usual,  Anne  and  Willie  coming  in  just  as  their  father 
was  about  leaving  the  table.  He  was  going  to  leave 
home  this  morning,  to  be  absent  four  weeks ;  but  there 
was  no  respectful  salutation,  no  pleasant  parting  kiss, 
from  these  ill-behaved  children,  for  the  father  who  had 
spent  his  days  in  toiling  for  their  welfare.  "Bring  me 
something  handsome  !"  and  "Bring  me  something  nice  !" 
they  exclaimed,  as  they  took  their  seats  at  the  table. 

"Where's  my  cup  of  coffee?"  said  Willie.  "This 
white  stuff  isn't  coffee." 

"  No,"  said  his  mother,  "  it  is  milk  and  water.  I  prefer 
that  you  should  drink  it  for  your  breakfast." 

"  And  I  prefer  the  coffee,"  said  Willie,  in  a  very  deter 
mined  tone,  "and  I  am  determined  to  have  it."  And 
he  stretched  his  hand  toward  the  coffee-pot  to  help  him 
self. 

"  Take  the  coffee  away,  Bridget,"  said  Mrs.  Merwyn. 
It  disappeared. 

"  Where's  my  buttered  toast  and  sausages?"  said  Anne. 

"You will  have  neither  this  morning.  There  is  good 
bread  and  butter,  and  you  can  have  a  mutton  chop  or  a 
boiled  egg,  just  which  you  prefer." 

"I  don't  prefer  either;  I  want  sausages.  If  I  can't 
Lave  what  I  want,  I  won't  eat  anything." 

"As  you  please,"  replied  the  mother,  coolly. 


84  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

The  children  looked  at  their  mother  and  at  each  other. 
They  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this  resolute  resist 
ance  to  their  wishes.  They  begged,  teased  and  fretted; 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  They  finally,  with  sullen. looks, 
condescended  to  eat  what  was  before  them.  "  But  I 
know  one  thing,"  said  Willie,  "if  I  can't  have  what  1 
want  for  my  dinner,  I'll  starve.  And  I  have  not  washed 
myself  all  over  for  a  week,  and  I  don't  intend  to  any 
more.  And  I  shan't  go  to  school  this  afternoon ;  father's 
gone,  and  I  mean  to  stay  at  home  and  play ;  and  won't 
you,  Anne?" 

Anne  declared  her  readiness  to  join  in  this  plan,  and 
with  this  bravado  they  left  the  room. 

The  dinner  was  still  more  stormy  and  uncomfortable 
than  the  breakfast  had  been.  The  children  went  to 
school  in  the  afternoon,  but  with  red  eyes  and  angry 
tempers.  Nor  was  it  much  better  at  tea.  They  were 
moody  and  discontented,  and  as  indulgence  had  hitherto 
been  the  mother's  only  means  of  management,  she  could 
not  alter  the  state  of  things.  A  cheerful  word  or  a  kind 
smile  was  met  with  sullenness  or  indifference ;  it  had  no 
value. 

After  a  wild,  romping  game,  which  the  mother  did  not 
attempt  to  check,  the  study  table  was  drawn  out ;  but, 
before  the  books  were  taken,  she  placed  her  children  in 
two  chairs,  and  seated  herself  opposite  to  them.  Her 
eye  was  moist  and  her  voice  trembled  a  little  as  she 
began  to  speak  to  them ;  but,  as  she  proceeded,  the 
strength  of  an  earnest  purpose  soon  dried  the  one  and 
gave  firmness  to  the  other. 

"My  children,"  said  she,  "I  love  you  dearly.     I  love 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  85 

you,  and  your  father  loves  you,  because  you  are  our  chil 
dren.  We  wish  to  make  you  good,  that  we  may  love  you 
better.  We  wish  you  to  be  happy,  which  you  cannot  be 
unless  you  are  good.  God  has  given  you  to  us,  and  hag 
commanded  us  to  train  you  up  in  the  way  in  which  you 
should  go.  He  has  commanded  children  to  love  and  obey 
their  parents.  You  are  old  enough  to  feel  and  under 
stand  how  right  this  is.  I  was  a  very  young  mother,  my 
dear  children,  when  you  were  given  to  me.  I  was  not 
twenty  years  old  when  the  youngest  of  you  was  born.. 
I  was  ignorant,  indolent  and  careless.  I  am  older  now. 
I  have  seen  the  evils  of  carelessness  and  over-indulgence. 
I  have  observed,  have  read,  and  I  have  thought.  I  am 
now  resolved  to  strive  to  train  you  in  the  right  way,  and 
as  the  first  step  and  foundation,  I  am  determined  that 
you  shall  obey  me.  I  do  not  think  you  love  me  or  your 
father,  as  children  generally  love  their  parents ;  perhaps 
you  never  will ;  but  you  must  obey  us  and  treat  us  with 
respect." 

The  children  had  often  seen  their  mother  in  a  passion 
from  their  provoking  ways,  and  had  often  felt  the  weight 
of  her  hand  upon  their  ears ;  but  they  now  felt  that  a 
new  principle  was  at  work.  They  were  silent  as  she 
proceeded. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  a  long  lecture,  or  to  re 
proach  you  with  the  past.  Our  business  is  with  the 
present  and  with  the  future.  Many  things,  which  you 
have  till  now  indulged  in,  will,  from  this  time,  be  entirely 
changed.  I  shall  be  changed.  I  shall  not  be  the  same 
mother  I  was  a  week  ago ;  I  hope  1  ?hall  be  a  better 
one.  Anne  and  William,  I  speak  seriously  to  you ;  yoti 


86  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

arc  both  old  enough  to  understand  me.  If  you  fall  into 
the  right  way  at  once,  it  will  save  trouble  and  make  me 
very  happy." 

"  Mother,"  said  Willie,  looking  at  her  half  in  wonder, 
u  I'm  almost  glad  at  what  you've  been  saying.  I  love 
you  better  than  you  think  for,  and  I  am  not  half  so  bad 
as  you  suppose  I  am  ;  but  somehow  the  naughty  feelings 
always  seemed  to  come  because  you  let  them.  I've  told 
Anne  fifty  times  that  I  wished  you  would  make  us  mind." 

Anne  said  nothing  for  some  time,  but  seemed  to  be  in 
deep  thought.  At  last  she  said,  "  I've  often  wished  that 
I  could  be  like  Alice  Weston ;  but  I  don't  know  how  I 
am  ever  going  to  learn  to  be  good.  I  know  I  shall  be 
cross  and  angry  fifty  times  a  day ;  I  can't  help  it." 

"  There  is  One  who  can  help  us  all,  if  we  truly  seek 
His  help,  my  children.  Let  us  ask  it  now." 

They  knelt,  and  the  mother,  with  streaming  eyes, 
prayed  for  that  assistance  which  the  great  Father  of  all 
has  kindly  promised  to  those  who  sincerely  seek  his  aid. 
The  children  were  unusually  thoughtful,  and  learned  their 
lessons  in  silence.  At  bed-time,  Mrs.  Mcrwyn  had  usually 
asked  her  children  for  a  kiss.  Sometimes  it  was  care 
lessly  given,  sometimes  not ;  always  considered  rather  as 
a  favour  from  the  children.  This  evening  she  did  not 
ask  them  for  a  kiss,  but  kindly  bade  them  good-night. 

The  very  next  morning,  this  awakened  mother  began 
upon  her  new  plan.  She  rose  early,  and  went  to  her 
children's  room,  to  see  that  they  were  bathed  and  rubbed, 
and  to  teach  them  how  best  to  do  it  for  themselves ;  and 
she  required  them  to  be  ready  for  breakfast  punctually 
at  thu  hour.  She  excluded  from  the  table  everything 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  87 

which  she  considered  unwholesome.  Some  rich.  high- 
Beaconed  dishes,  which  had  been  favourites,  were  banished 
for  ever,  and  food  plainer,  yet  excellent  in  its  kind,  was 
substituted.  Mrs.  Merwjn  sent  her  children  out  to  run 
and  play  half  an  hour  before  going  to  school,  and  the 
etimc  on  their  return ;  and  she  fitted  up  a  large  spare 
room  with  every  convenience  for  exercise  when  the 
weather  should  be  stormy.  She  examined  into  her  child 
ren's  studies,  and  reduced  their  number.  She  procured 
the  same  books,  and  spent  two  hours  a  day  in  making 
herself  thorough  mistress  of  their  contents,  keeping  con 
stantly  a  little,  ahead  of  them  in  their  lessons.  She  pro 
cured  various  books  of  reference,  and  learned,  not  only 
the  text,  but  whatever  she  could  find  relating  to  it  in 
compends,  dictionaries,  and  encyclopedias;  and  it  was 
surpri  -ing  to  see  how  the  respect  of  her  children  in 
creased,  when  they  found  that  their  mother  knew,  not 
only  more  than  they  did  themselves,  but,  in  many  in 
stances,  more  than  their  teachers. 

All  this  was  easy.  It  was  a  plain  path,  requiring 
nothing  but  ordinary  judgment,  and  a  little  extraordi 
nary  energy.  Not  so  with  the  moral  self-culture  and 
training  of  her  children,  which  this  mother  had  now  in 
earnest  undertaken.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  supply  proper 
motives  to  children  who  had  always  looked  to  some  out 
ward,  sensual  indulgence,  as  the  reward,  not  only  of  men 
tal  exertion,  but  for  being  good.  It  was  not  easy  for  one 
who  had  lavished  caresses  indiscriminately,  merely  to 
gratify  her  own  feelings,  or  to  coax  them  to  her  purpose, 
to  give  a  value  in  her  children's  eyes  to  a  smile,  a  caress, 
a  word  of  praise,  to  make  them  motives  and  rewards  for 


83  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

good  conduct.  It  was  not  easy  to  curb  the  stubborn  and 
long-indulged  will,  to  check  the  impatient  temper,  to 
change  rude  manners  into  respectful  politeness.  And 
yet  it  was  wonderful  to  behold  the  progress,  even  here ; 
so  much  is  there  in  a  resolute  determination,  in  sustained 
•ind  unflagging  effort. 

The  early  rising  and  the  evening  prayer  had  not  becu 
discontinued  ;  and  though  the  mother  devoted  so  much 
more  time  than  formerly  to  her  children,  she  found  she 
had  more  leisure  for  household  occupation,  general  read 
ing,  and  social  enjoyment,  than  ever  before.  The  energy 
called  up  for  a  particular  purpose,  extended  itself  into 
every  department,  and  gave  firmness  and  confidence  to 
one  who  had  hitherto  been  thought  rather  a  weak  woman. 
Her  friends  remarked  a  depth  and  earnestness  about 
her,  which  they  had  never  observed  before ;  and  she  was 
gratified  to  perceive  an  increase  of  respect  and  conside 
ration  in  all  around  her.  These  things,  however,  came 
later.  Our  business  is  with  the  first  steps  of  this  change ; 
to  show  that  it  is  possible  to  stem  an  erring  course,  to 
retrace  a  mistaken  path  in  the  outset  of  life.  Notwith 
standing  the  involuntary  admission  of  Anne  and  Willie, 
that  it  would  be  better  for  them  to  be  well-governed,  they 
had,  both  from  nature  and  habit,  become  too  fond  of  hav 
ing  their  own  way,  readily  to  give  it  up.  During  the  first 
week  of  her  trial,  especially,  if  this  young  mother  had 
not  brought  to  her  support  every  power  of  her  nature, 
and  every  motive  suggested  by  conscience,  love,  and 
hope. — if  she  had  not  been  sustained  by  constant  prayer 
and  a  daily  increasing  sense  of  duty, — she  would  many 
times  have  yielded,  and  the  old  state  of  things  would 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  89 

have  been  established  more  firmly  than  ever.  Many  were 
the  struggles  with  her  children,  but  still  more  frequent 
were  her  self-wrestlings.  To  be  firm  without  severity  ; 
to  inflict  a  necessary  pain  when  her  heart  was  overflowing 
with  love;  to  teach  an  impulsive  disposition  to  examine, 
wait,  and  weigh;  and  finally,  to  require  the  penalty  of 
strict  justice ;  to  inflict  the  exact  degree  of  punishment 
which  the  case  required ;  all  this  demanded  painful 
effort.  And  still  more  painful  was  it  to  withhold  the 
caresses  which  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  bestowing 
upon  her  children  whenever  they  would  condescend  to 
receive  them.  Mrs.  Merwyn  had  the  good  sense,  in 
forming  her  new  system  of  discipline,  to  strive  to  avoid 
a  habit  of  petty  fault-finding.  Many  trifles  were  passed 
without  reproof,  many  disagreeable  habits  unnoticed,  in 
the  hope  and  belief  that  when  the  great  principle  of  filial 
obedience  was  established,  its  healthy  stimulus  would 
naturally  produce  a  better  growth. 

One  evening  the  children  had  been  impolite  to  each 
other  while  at  supper.  The  mother  took  no  notice.  At 
the  study  table  Anne  had  her  slate  and  pencil,  which 
Willie  wanted.  "  I  will  have  it,"  said  Willie  ;  "  I  want 
it  for  my  sums.  I  am  not  going  away  up  to  my  room 
for  my  slate  and  pencil,  while  yours  is  lying  here  doing 
nothing." 

They  both  seized  the  slate  and  struggled.  Anne,  being 
the  stronger,  gained  possession,  whereupon  Willie  struck 
her.  She  struck  back  again.  Their  mother  had  observed 
it  all. 

"  Children,"  said  she,  "  put  down  the  slate,  and  come 
to  me." 


90  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

Her  voice  was  deep  and  sad,  but  calm  and  resolved. 
They  did  not  dare  to  disobey.  Each,  however,  accord 
ing  to  custom,  began  to  accuse  the  other  in  very  strong 
terms. 

"Be  silent,"  said  the  mother.  Her  voice  was  lower 
and  slower  than  usual,  yet  it  was  obeyed.  "  Anne,  look 
me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me  every  circumstance  of  this 
quarrel;  see  that  you  tell  it  exactly."  Anne  felt  that 
she  must  tell  the  exact  truth,  and  she  did  so. 

"Willie,  now  let  me  hear  your  account."  Willie 
stated  the  facts  exactly. 

"My  children,"  said  the  mother,  "you  are  both  to 
blame.  You  both  deserve  punishment ;  but  I  long  for 
the  time  to  come  when  we  need  not  resort  to  punishment. 
Yesterday,  for  one  fault,  you  forfeited  a  pleasant  ride, 
which  your  uncle  had  offered  to  give  you.  Last  evening, 
I  was  obliged  to  put  you  in  separate  rooms,  and  sit  here 
alone  by  myself.  This  morning  you  each  received  five 
severe  strokes  upon  the  hand.  It  is  painful  for  me  to 
punish  you;  but  this  fault  must  be  atoned  for.  Sit 
down  at  opposite  sides  of  the  table,  and  think.  See  if 
you  cannot  devise  some  way  of  getting  along  this  time 
without  punishment." 

"  Mother,"  said  Willie,  "  I  know  what  you  mean  ; 
but  it  is  the  very  worst  punishment  I  could  have.  Must 
I  ask  sister's  pardon  ?" 

lie  looked  at  Anne,  and  she  at  him.  He  was  naturally 
nf  a  generous  disposition,  and  there  was  something  in  his 
sister's  countenance  which  touched  a  chord  long  unused 
to  vibrate. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  91 

"  Anne,"  he  stammered  out,  "  I  do  beg  jour  pardon. 
Will  you  forgive  me  ?  I  was  most  in  the  wrong." 

"  I  did  wrong,  too,"  said  Anne. 

"Mother,  will  you  forgive  us?"  said  they  both,  with 
one  impulse. 

"  I  will,"  said  she.     "Now  go  to  your  lessons." 

She  was  obliged  to  go  to  another  room  to  conceal  her 
emotion  at  this  first  conquest  of  her  children  over  them 
selves;  this  first-fruits  of  her  new  system  of  training. 
"Help  me,  0,  help  me  to  persevere!" 

And  in  the  prayer  with  her  children,  before  retiring 
to  rest,  she  thanked  Him  for  putting  good,  kind,  and 
gentle  thoughts  into  their  young  hearts ;  and  prayed 
that  this  spirit  might  grow  more  and  more,  until  Love 

should 

"  Through  all  their  actions  run." 

That  night,  the  children  looked  and  lingered,  before 
retiring  to  rest,  as  if  in  want  of  something;  but  no  kiss, 
iao  caress,  was  offered  by  their  mother,  though  her  heart 
was  yearning  for  it. 

The  next  day  was  passed  without  the  call  for  pun 
ishment.  The  evening  was  cheerful  and  happy.  When 
Willie  had  looked  ten  minutes  in  vain  to  find  a  certain 
place  in  the  south  of  Europe,  on  the  map,  his  mother 
came  and  pointed  it  out  to  him,  giving  him  at  the  same 
time  some  interesting  particulars  of  its  history  and 
principal  manufactures.  "Thank  you,  mother,"  said 
Willie  :  "how  much  you  do  know  !" 

Anne  had  a  piece  of  poetry  to  commit  to  memory, 
ifl  which  Circe  and  the  Cyclops,  and  the  Syrens  were 
mentioned. 


i)2  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

"  How  many  thousand  such  make-believe  beings  our 
books  are  full  of !"  exclaimed  she.  "  Where  did  the 
stuff  all  come  from  ?  Don't  you  think  it  all  nonsense 
to  study  about  them,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Merwyn  took  the  opportunity  briefly  to  explain 
the  ancient  mythology.  She  gave  a  short  account  of 
Homer,  repeating  Byron's  beautiful  lines,  and  afterward 
a  little  sketch  of  Ulysses,  as  detailed  in  the  Odyssey. 

"  How  interesting  !"  said  Anne.  "  How  I  should 
like  to  read  the  Odyssey!  After  all,  though  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  these  old  stories,  it  must  be  very 
pleasant  to  know  all  about  them ;  for  we  are  meeting 
with  something  or  other  about  them  in  almost  every 
book  we  see." 

That  evening,  the  children  seemed  more  closely  drawn 
to  their  mother  than  ever  before.  Her  steady  govern 
ment,  and  her  newly-discovered  stores  of  information, 
had  raised  her  wonderfully  in  the  opinion  of  her  child 
ren,  and  their  love  seemed  to  keep  pace  with  their 
respect.  And  this  evening  her  manner  had  been  so 
kind,  her  voice  so  gentle ;  she  had  given  up  her  own 
occupations  to  attend  to  them ;  she  had  refused  a 
pleasant  invitation  in  order  to  pass  the  evening  with 
them.  A  good  and  gentle  influence  had  seemed  to 
settle  upon  them,  tuning  their  minds  to  love  and 
harmony.  But  bed-time  came.  The  children  looked 
wistfully  at  their  mother.  At  last,  Willie  said, 
"Mother,  you  never  kiss  us,  now.  Won't  you  kiss  us 
to-night  ?" 

"Yes,  my  children.     This  has  been  a  happy  day  to 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  03 

me,  because  you  both  have  been  good  children."  Upon 
this,  she  kissed  them  fondly. 

"  Won't  you  always  kiss  us,  when  you  think  we  have 
been  good  enough?"  said  Willie;  "and  then  we  shall 
know  what  you  think  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  will,  Willie." 

"  Mother,"  said  Anne,  "  when  is  father  coming  home  ?" 

"  In  a  week." 

"I  thought,"  said  Anne,  hesitating,  "that  fathers 
always  governed  the  children.  Father  never  governs 
us." 

Mrs.  Merwyn  took  that  opportunity  to  explain  to  her 
children  how  dearly  their  father  loved  them,  how  con 
stantly  he  exerted  himself  for  their  welfare,  how  worthy 
he  was  of  their  highest  respect  and  love,  and  how  much 
he  would  be  gratified  if  they  should  strive  in  every  way 
to  improve  themselves. 

The  week  passed  happily  away.  The  children,  finding 
they  could  gain  no  end  by  opposing  their  own  will  to  the 
determination  of  their  mother,  ceased  attempting  it,  while 
her  judicious  praise,  whenever  they  really  deserved  it, 
gave  them  a  pleasure  so  new  and  sweet  as  greatly  to 
stimulate  their  efforts  and  increase  their  love. 

On  the  expected  evening,  just  at  tea-time,  the  father 
came.  The  room  was  bright  and  clean.  The  fire  was 
blazing.  Extra  lights  burned  on  the  mantel.  A  little 
feast  was  spread  upon  the  table.  The  lessons  had  been 
learned  beforehand,  and  the  books  put  away.  The 
mother  had  on  a  handsome  new  cap,  and  the  children 
had  asked  permission  to  put  on  their  holiday  clothes. 
Hr  Merwyn  entered  as  he  had  left,  with  a  pale  and 


94  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE 

rather  sad    countenance.     "  My  dear   husband !''    said 
the  wife  with  a  beaming  face. 

"My  dear,  dear  father!"  cried  both  the  children, 
kissing  him. 

Willie  drew  his  arm-chair  to  the  fire.  Anne  tooK 
his  overcoat  and  gloves,  and  carried  them  to  the  table. 
Then  she  smoothed  his  hair  and  brushed  the  dust  from 
his  coat,  after  which  they  both  stood  and  waited  till  he 
should  be  warm  and  ready  to  go  to  the  table.  While  at; 
the  table  they  were  quiet  and  polite. 

In  the  evening,  the  children  amused  themselves  to 
gether  with  joining  maps  and  puzzles,  while  Mr.  Menvyn 
gave  his  wife  the  particulars  of  his  journey.  At  bed 
time,  they  came  to  their  mother  for  a  kiss,  which  she 
gave  them.  They  then  somewhat  timidly  approached 
their  father.  "  Won't  you  kiss  us,  father?"  said  Anne: 
"mother  says  we  have  been  good  to-day."  The  father 
kissed  them  with  glistening  eyes. 

When  they  were  gone,  he  said  to  his  Avifc,  "  Helen, 
now  you  are  changed !  How  much  brighter  and  happier 
you  look  than  you  did  a  month  ago !  and  not  only  that, 
but  you  have  grown  suddenly  taller,  higher  in  mind  and 
body.  And  the  children — what  has  come  over  them  ? 
They  are  not  the  children  I  left;  they  are  good,  gentle, 
well-behaved.  How  is  this?" 

Then  the  wife,  amid  tears  and  smiles,  poured  into  the 
ear  of  her  listening  husband  the  history  of  a  month; 
her  new-born  resolutions,  her  trials,  and  now  her  begin 
nings  of  success. 

"And  have  you  accomplished  so  much  H  a  month, 
Helen?  It  seems  impossible." 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  ) 

lk  I  have,  to  be  sure,  exerted  every  power  of  my 
nature.  I  resolved  to  make  a  change  before  your 
return,  if  it  was  in  the  power  of  human  effort  to  do  it. 
I  trust  I  have  made  a  beginning.  I  have  discovered 
affections  and  capabilities  in  our  children,  which  I  never 
suspected.  My  dear  husband,  let  us  join  together,  let 
us  persevere;  and  who  knows  but  we  may  yet  deserve 
and  enjoy  the  blessing  promised  to  faithful  parents  ?" 

"  My  Helen,  I  thought  of  little  else  during  my  long 
journey.  I  came  home  with  my  mind  full  of  it.  I 
had  determined  to  alter  many  things  in  my  business 
and  domestic  habits,  entirely  with  reference  to  the  best 
interests  of  my  children,  though,  I  confess,  I  was  not 
sanguine  in  the  hope  of  any  thorough  and  radical  im 
provement." 

Hours  passed,  while  the  husband  and  wife  communed 
of  the  future,  making  resolutions  and  forming  plans  to 
carry  out,  in  the  best  manner,  the  reformation  in  their 
children,  so  happily  begun. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the  steps  by  which 
these  parents,  now  thoroughly  awakened  to  a  sense  of 
duty,  and  the  importance  of  the  trust  committed  to 
their  care,  gained  an  influence  over  their  children, 
which  resulted  in  beautiful  developments  of  character, 
and,  finally,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  in  a  well-founded 
hope  of  happiness  in  a  future  life.  It  would  be  inte 
resting  to  trace  the  progress  of  self-culture  and  self-im 
provement,  by  which  they  were  enabled  to  do  this ;  we 
can  only  record  a  brief  conversation  which  took  place 
about  a  year  after  the  events  we  have  been  detailing 
occurred.  Mrs.  Weston,  the  good  friend  mentioned  iu 


96  THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE. 

the  beginning  of  this  story,  had  for  several  months 
been  confined  to  the  house  by  the  protracted  illness 
of  one  of  her  (laughters.  Her  husband,  coming  in 
rather  late,  one  evening,  told  her  that  he  had  been  to 
take  tea  with  the  Mcnvyns. 

"And  how  did  you  find  them?"  asked  Mrs.  Weston. 
"It  is  long  since  I  have  been  able  to  see  them." 

"And  I,"  rejoined  Mr.  Weston,  "have  kept  away 
from  them  on  purpose.  They  used  to  be  always  in 
trouble  with  their  children.  Their  house  was  a  very 
uncomfortable  place." 

"  Is  it  better  now  ?" 

"  Better !  you  would  not  know  the  children ;  you 
would  scarcely  know  the  parents.  In  the  first  place, 
the  children  have  lost  the  pale,  puny  look  they  used  to 
have ;  they  were  blooming  with  health  and  overflowing 
with  spirits,  yet  they  were  not  rude.  I  watched  them. 
They  were  kind  to  each  other,  polite  to  me,  and  obedient 
to  a  word  or  a  look  from  their  parents.  When  I  went 
in,  they  were  studying  their  lessons,  which  they  were 
anxious  to  finish  before  tea.  When  they  were  in  diffi 
culty  they  called  upon  their  mother,  and  she  gave  them 
just  that  degree  of  help  and  encouragement  which  would 
imike  them  think  for  and  exert  themselves.  They 
had  as  good  manners  at  the  table  as  I  ever  saw  in 
children.  At  eight  o'clock,  a  company  of  young  people 
came  in,  and  I  found  it  was  a  kind  of  regular  Thursday 
evening  soiree.  Charades  were  acted,  games  were  in 
troduced  ;  Merwyn  and  his  wife  occasionally  joining,  at 
the  request  of  Annie  or  Willie,  who  seemed  delighted 
when  father  and  mother  would  take  a  part;  mother, 


THE  MOTHER'S  RESOLVE.  97 

especially,  was  often  called  upon,  and  I  could  see  the 
children's  eyes  sparkle  with  pleasure  when  she  guessed 
right.  The  children  evidently  think  there  is  nobody  in 
the  world  like  their  mother. 

"  At  ten  o'clock,  the  young  people  went  away.  The 
children  came  for  the  good-night  kiss,  and  I  heard  Willie 
whisper,  as  he  put  his  arms  round  his  mother's  neck, 
'Have  I  been  good,  dear  mother?  Do  you  love  me?' 
I  could  not  help  asking  about  it.  It  seems  that,  about 
a  year  ago,  they  came  to  a  determination  to  do  their 
duty  as  parents.  Helen  says  you  helped  her  at  the 
outset.  Since  that  time  Merwyn  has  never  once  omitted 
daily  prayer.  Never  once  have  the  children  been  per 
mitted  to  disobey  with  impunity.  The  modes  by  which 
they  have  induced  habits  of  veracity,  of  kindness,  of 
self-denial,  of  politeness,  of  mental  exertion,  would  be  a 
pattern  to  most  parents.  Merwyn  does  not  go  to  his 
counting-room  after  tea ;  he  devotes  himself  to  his 
family.  And  once  a  week,  the  children's  holiday,  they 
all  go  off  to  some  country  place,  pic-nicking,  flower- 
gathering,  nutting,  landscape-hunting,  something  to  im 
prove  mind  and  body.  Mrs.  Merwyn  has  almost  given 
up  large  parties ;  but  she  cultivates  a  circle  of  pleasant 
friends,  and  encourages  social  visits.  Pray,  go  to  see  her, 
aiy  dear,  now  Alice  is  better,  and  take  the  children." 

"  I  will,  my  dear." 

"  Helen  and  you  will  agree  exactly.  Your  notions 
are  alike;  but  Merwyn  is  far,  far  ahead  of  me.  My 
children  love  me,  but  they  do  not  cling  to  me  as 
Merwyn's  do.  I  have  cared  for  their  outward  and 
temporal  welfare,  but  how  little  have  I  done  for  their 
7 


98  BE   CAREFUL   HOW   YOU    TREAT   CHILDREN. 

higher  and  better  interests  !  The  burden  has  all  been 
thrown  upon  you.  I  have  not  done  my  part.  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  am  provoked — " 

"  Provoked  to  good  works,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Weston, 
with  a  kind  smile.  "  That  is  the  way  friends  should 
provoke  each  other.  I  am  delighted  with  what  you  tell 
me,  and  I  also  will  become  a  learner.  It  is  never  too 
late  to  improve.  If  parents  generally  would  follow  the 
example  of  these  Merwyns,  if  they  would  with  prayer 
and  resolution  act  to  reform  their  children,  instead  of 
repining  and  wrongfully  accusing  Providence,  a  blessing 
•would  fall  upon  their  homes  and  their  hearts.  There 
•would  be  light  in  their  dwellings.  Instead  of  the  spirit 
of  heaviness  there  would  be  joy  and  peace ;  and,  at  the 
last,  they  would  hear  the  joyful  words,  '  Well  done, 
good  and  faithful  servant !'" 


BE  CAREFUL  HOW  YOU  TREAT  CHILDREN. 

SISTER  and  I  have  been  sitting  to-night  talking  over 
our  childhood's  days.  How  many  a  word,  act,  and  even 
look  we  remember,  which  the  speakers  or  actors  deemed 
we  would  forget  with  the  passing  hour !  How  we  have 
been  away  in  secret,  and  wept  over  lightly-uttered  words, 
or  even  gentle  reproof!  Alas,  some  of  them  have  car 
ried  their  effects  upon  our  whole  after  years  !  Children 
are  quick  to  feel — quick  to  comprehend  ;  much  quicker 
than  their  elders  usually  deem.  I  remember  now  of  vhe 


BE   CAREFUL   HOW   YOU   TREAT   CHILDREN.  99 

punishment  a  teacher  inflicted  upon  me  when  quite  a 
child.  How  unkind  and  unjust  I  thought  her,  then,  and 
how  void  of  the  better  feelings  which  I  possessed !  Be 
fore  that  I  had  loved  her  dearly ;  but  I  could  never  so 
love  her  again.  The  punishment  came  because  I  would 
not  tell  what  had  made  me  laugh  outright  during  study 
hours.  I  would  not  tell,  because  it  would  have  thrown 
the  blame  upon  another.  Child  as  I  was,  I  well  remem 
ber  how  my  heart  swelled  within  me  to  think  I  could 
bear  and  suffer  for  another ;  and  even  my  teacher's  in 
sisting  upon  the  wrong  could  not  make  me  act  it.  She 
is  dead,  now ;  and  can  never  know  how  long  or  how 
vividly  I  remembered  her  unjust  punishment. 

One  can  never  be  too  watchful  over  himself  in  his 
dealings  with  children.  Their  perceptions  are  usually 
very  quick,  their  hearts  truthful  and  sincere.  If  they 
were  ever  and  steadily  thus  dealt  with  by  others,  more 
would  grow  up  truthful  and  earnest  men  and  women. 
And,  oh,  how  much  we  need  such  persons  among  us  ! 
It  seems  to  me  children  are  taught  deception  from  their 
very  cradles.  No  wonder  they  become  such  adepts  in 
it  in  their  after  years. 

Few  parents  have  the  patience  to  always  do  rightly 
and  deal  honestly  with  their  children.  And  if  parents 
have  it  not,  how  can  it  be  expected  that  servants  will  ? 
They  work  for  hire  ;  and  many  of  them  have  no  interest 
in  their  labours,  save  for  the  time  being.  Yet  many 
mothers  give  up  their  children  almost  entirely  to  such 
care.  They  are  young,  and  gay,  and  fashionable,  per 
haps,  and  cannot  devote  their  precious  time  to  the 
nursery.  Society  has  claims  upon  them  which  must  b< 


100  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY. 

answered.    They  strive  to  procure  good  servants,  it  may 
be,  and  then  they  have  done  their  duty. 

Oh,  mothers,  is  this  all  your  duty  ?  When  God  gave 
those  precious  souls  to  your  keeping,  went  there  no 
"still,  small  voice"  to  your  heart,  saying,  He  would 
again  claim  them  at  your  hands  ?  Do  not  their  eloquent 
pleadings — pleadings  which  every  mother  understands — 
woo  you  to  a  sense  of  the  sweet,  yet  heavy  responsibility 
resting  upon  you  ?  Can  you  turn  coldly  away,  and  day 
after  day,  night  after  night,  and  week  after  week,  leave 
them  at  Pleasure's  or  Fashion's  fitful  call  ?  Could  you 
do  this,  arid  yet  hope  for  happiness  here  or  hereafter  ? 
Ah  !  no,  it  cannot  be !  Nature's  voice  cannot  be  so 
silenced.  It  will  speak  out  within  the  heart,  if  not  to  the 
world  at  large.  I  envy  not  the  mother  who  is  a  devotee 
at  Fashion's  shrine.  Rather  give  me  laborious  hours 
and  weary  vigils  by  the  loved  ones  at  home  ;  so  that,  at 
last,  I  may  "give  up  mine  own  with  usury,"  feeling  a 
certainty  that  I  "  have  done  what  I  could." 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY. 

"All  about, 

The  broad  sweet  sunshine  lay  without, 
Filling  the  summer  air." — LONGFELLOW. 

IT  was  a  calm,  shady  summer  afternoon.  Such  an  after 
noon  as  seems  to  me  always  a  poem,  rich,  mellow,  com- 
olete ;  with  nothing  of  a  turgid,  stirring,  Ossian  swell 
About  it ;  but  a  calm,  soothing  .&n/aw£-poem,  one  of  those 
afternoons  that  are  Nature's  "lullaby  ''  to  the  soul. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  101 

1  was  at  Valley  Falls,  at  grandmother's.  Somehow 
I  ;im  happier  there  than  I  am  in  the  city,  though  my 
sisters  would  think  it  was  very  ungrateful  of  me,  to  say 
so  when  they  buy  me  four  new  silk  dresses  every  year, 
and  I  can  ride  down  Broadway  in  their  own  carriage, 
every  pleasant  afternoon. 

They  are  very  fashionable  ladies,  my  sisters.  They 
live  in  great  stone  houses  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  when 
they  sweep  up  and  down  their  magnificent  parlours,  the 
blaze  of  their  diamonds  puts  to  shame  the  light  of  the 
chandeliers. 

They  are  called  very  elegant  and  exclusive,  my  sisters, 
and  dear  me !  what  a  strife  there  is  among  the  ladies 
down  town,  to  have  their  names  on  their  visiting  list — 
then  their  parties  are  said  to  be  the  most  recherche  of 
the  season,  and  the  dressmaker  and  milliner  who  can 
say  they  made  Mrs.  Devoe's  last  ball  dress,  or  Mrs.  St. 
Glair's  beauty  of  a  spring  hat,  think  their  fortunes  are 
made.  I  am  very  unlike  my  sisters,  and  they  say  it  is  a 
source  of  constant  anxiety  to  them.  They  tell  me  it 
betrays  such  a  painful  want  of  musical  taste  to  prefer 
our  old  church  organ  to  the  opera,  and  the  wind  in  the 
great  maple  branches  at  Valley  Falls,  to  Jenny  Lind's 
bird  song. 

Then  too  I  love  the  green  meadows,  and  the  mountain 
daisies,  and  the  cool  sweet  breath  of  the  country  clovers, 
and  the  broad,  clear,  sunshine,  so  much  better  than  the 
drawing-rooms,  with  their  dim,  pink-rose  light,  their 
carved  arches,  and  their  Parisian  carpets. 

But  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  at  grandmother's,  and  my 
sisters  were  at  Newport  and  Nahant;  and  I  should  have 


i02  GRANDMOTHER'S  STJRY. 

been  with  them,  if  mamma,  before  she  died,  had  not 
exacted  a  promise  that  I  should  pass  every  summer  at 
Valley  Falls  ;  and,  so  every  June  I  say  "  good-bye  "  to 
the  city,  and  with  a  heart  glad  as  bees  in  May  clover,  or 
a  bird  among  apple  boughs,  I  come  up  here  to  the  old 
gray  "farm-house"  where  my  mother  lived,  and  where 
my  grandmother  once  said,  "  would  God  she  had  died." 

I  was  sitting  by  the  window,  where  the  plum  boughs 
leaned  up  against  the  side  of  the  house,  and  the  green 
leaves  brushed  my  forehead  as  they  went  to  and  fro  to 
the  low  rhythm  of  the  summer  wind,  when  I  heard  the 
gate-latch  unclose,  and  peeping  between  the  branches,  I 
saw  a  female  coming  up  the  walk.  The  sunshine  fell 
full  on  her  face  and  figure,  so  I  could  see  her  distinctly. 
She  was  an  old  lady ;  there  was  no  relief  to  the  thick 
white  hair  that  was  neatly  parted,  and  gathered  under 
her  lace  cap,  for  she  wore  no  bonnet.  There  was  a  kind 
of  solemn  dignity  in  the  old  lady's  manner,  as  she  came 
up  the  walk,  her  black  silk  dress  brushing  the  gravel 
stones. 

There  was  an  expression  too  in  her  face,  that  attracted 
while  it  repelled  me.  It  was  a  proud  face ;  time  had 
gathered  the  once  smooth  forehead  into  thick  wrinkles, 
and  hollowed  the  cheeks,  and  sharpened  the  mouth,  but 
no  work  of  time  could  erase  the  expression  of  those 
features.  Even  in  death  you  felt  it  would  be  still  a  proud 
face. 

But  it  was  a  mournful  one ;  not  the  mournfulness  alone 
of  old  age,  and  a  heart  weary,  and  almost  done  with  life, 
but  that  of  a  mighty  grief,  an  ever-present,  ever-living 
eon  ow. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  103 

There  was  a  strange  expression  too  in  the  eyes.  I 
did  not  observe  this  at  first ;  not  until  she  passed  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  they  wandered  eagerly  all  over 
it,  as  though  she  were  searching  for  some  person  at  all 
the  windows. 

There  was  an  indescribable  somewhat  in  those  eyes 
that  terrified  me,  as  at  last  they  alighted  on  my  face. 

The  old  lady  drew  under  the  tree.  "  Good  afternoon, 
miss,"  she  said  with  a  stately  dignity  that  was  strangely 
improssive. 

"  Have  you  seen  Maurise  this  afternoon?" 

"  No,  madam,  I  have  not,"  I  answered,  divining  at 
once  that  my  questioner  was  labouring  under  mental 
aberration,  "  I  an  not  acquainted  with  the  person  of 
whom  you  speak."' 

"Mrs.  Hilly swd !"  called  out  a  voice  before  the  old 
lady  had  time  to  reply,  and  then  I  saw  a  plainly  dressed, 
middle-aged  woman,  hastily  coming  towards  her. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  she  said,  "  we  have  been  searching 
for  you  everywhere.  How  could  you  walk  so  far  without 
either  bonnet  or  shawl,  in  this  warm  sun  ?  I  have 
brought  yours  with  me,  and  we  had  better  return  now." 

"  But  I  thought  Maurise  might  have  passed  this  way," 
said  the- old  lady  doubtingly,  as  she  received  the  bonnet. 

"No,  I  am  quite  certain  she  has  not;"  answered  her 
companion  in  a  soothing  tone.  "Nobody  has  seen  her." 

The  old  lady  sighed  so  mournfully,  that  it  brought  the 
tears  into  my  eyes.  She  took  the  arm  of  her  attendant, 
between  whom  and  myself  a  quick  signal  of  intelligence 
had  passed,  and  they  went  out. 

Of  course  my  curiosity  was  greatly  excited.    "Grand- 


104  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY. 

ma  knows  everybody  in  these  parts ;"  I  murmured  to 
myself,  "  and  as  soon  as  her  afternoon  nap  is  over,  I'll 
go  down  and  ask  her  who  in  the  world  Mrs.  Hillyard  is." 

"  Grandma,  oh  !  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  are  up,  for 
the  oddest  circumstance  happened  about  half  an  hour 
ago;"  and  I  related  the  singular  occurrence  to  which  I 
had  been  a  witness. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Hillyard !"  said  my  grandmother,  shaking 
her  head  and  sighing,  "  how  true  it  is  that  God  con 
temneth  the  'high  look,  and  the  proud  heart.'" 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it ;  won't  you,  grandma  ?  I  am 
just  in  the  mood  for  hearing  a  story  now,  and  I  know 
this  will  be  so  interesting;"  and  I  drew  a  stool  to  my 
grandmother's  feet,  as  I  always  do  to  anybody's,  if  I 
dare,  when  they  tell  me  a  story. 

It  was  just  the  time  and  place  for  telling  one.  I  want 
you  to  mind  this,  and  to  feel  that  you  are  there  too, 
While  I  relate  it  in  my  grandmother's  own  words. 

It  was  a  bedroom  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  the 
cosiest,  most  comfortable  little  nook  in  creation.  A 
thick  vine  grew  over  the  low  window  and  filled  the  room 
with  a  cool  fresh  dimness,  like  that  of  wood  shadows, 
and  the  wind  came  up  to  us  with  a  low  pleasant  rustle, 
which  always  fills  the  heart  with  sweet  thoughts.  Oh  ! 
there  is  no  place  for  telling  stories  like  a  bedroom  in  the 
country. 

My  grandma  gave  two  or  three  preliminary  motions 
to  her  rocking-chair,  and  commenced. 

"You  remember,  Luella,  the  large  old  house  we  passed 
yesterday,  when  we  rode  down  to  the  Falls?" 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  105 

'  What,"  I  said,  "the  one  with  the  gray  front,  and  the 
brier  clambering  over  the  steps,  and  such  a  mournful, 
grave-yard  atmosphere  about  it,  that  I  couldn't  help 
shuddering  as  we  passed  it?" 

"  Yes,  but  once,  Luella,"  and  grandma's  hand  was 
laid  fondly  on  my  head,  "  a  being,  young  and  fair,  and 
light-hearted  as  you  are,  sprang  gracefully  down  those 
old  Ftone  steps,  and  her  sweet  laugh  woke  up  the  echoes 
that  have  long  slumbered  round  the  old  house. 

Mrs.  Hillyard  was  a  proud  woman,  and  her  pride  has 
been  her  ruin,  and,  alas !  not  hers  alone. 

Her  husband  was  a  young  man,  when  he  brought  his 
fair  but  haughty-looking  bride  to  Valley  Falls. 

lie  was  a  -kind,  genial-hearted  man,  too,  and  the 
neighbours  often  wondered  what  induced  him  to  wed  a 
woman  so  cold  and  inaccessible  as  Mrs.  Hillyard  proved 
herself  in  all  her  intercourse  with  the  people. 

They  said  she  came  from  an  old  but  decayed  English 
family,  and  it  may  be  that  education  had  developed  and 
matured  this  inherent  pride.  I  cannot  tell;  but  it  is 
best  to  deal  gently  as  we  can  with  those  whom  God  has 
smitten. 

Mrs.  Ilillyard  loved  her  husband.  I  had  no  doubt 
of  that,  from  the  hour  that  I  first  saw  them  together; 
for  a  sudden  light  would  kindle  up  the  cold  proud  face 
whenever  he  addressed  her,  and  sometimes,  I  have  heard 
the  soft  tones  grow  eager,  and  full  of  womanly  affection 
as  they  answered  him. 

We  were  never  intimate,  Mrs.  Hillyard  and  I,  still  we 
always  interchanged  formal  visits ;  so  my  opinion  of  her 
character  was  founded  rather  on  personal  observation, 


106  GRANDMOTHER  6    STORY. 

than  on  the  remarks  which  her  coldness  and  exclusive- 
ness  induced  from  envious  and  gossiping  neighbours. 

Years  rolled  on,  Mr.  Hillyard  was  slowly  amassing  a 
fortune  in  his  profession,  and  one  fair  child  had  opened 
a  new  fountain  of  love  in  the  heart  of  his  wife,  when 
one  day,  on  returning  from  some  neighbouring  village, 
his  horse  took  fright. 

Mr.  Hillyard,  if  I  remember  right,  had  purchased  him 
only  the  day  before,  and  probably  did  not  understand 
managing  the  terrified  animal. 

At  all  events,  after  dashing  over  the  main  road  for 
some  two  miles,  he  threw  his  rider;  Mr.  Hillyard  was 
discovered  and  carried  home  to  a  bed  from  which  he 
never  arose.  He  lived  only  two  days. 

I  remember  how  my  heart  ached  for  the  almost  dis 
tracted  wife.  I  always  believed  it  was  nothing  but  the 
little  Maurise  who  saved  her  mother  from  following  her 
father. 

The  grief  of  the  poor  woman  was  terrible  to  behold. 
They  were  obliged  at  last  to  carry  her  by  force  from  the 
body  of  her  dead  husband;  and  yet,  I  have  sometimes 
looked  out  on  the  marble  urn  that  rises  among  the  thick 
hemlock  trees,  and  thought  it  would  have  been  better  if 
two  hearts  were  lying  beneath  it. 

But  Mrs.  Hillyard  lived,  and  Maurise  grew  into  woman 
hood.  I  can  see  her  now,  (and  my  grandmother  dropped 
her  voice  a?  ihough  she  were  talking  quite  to  herself.) 

She  had  the  pure,  oval  features  of  her  m other,  with 
the  dark  eyes,  and  bright  smile  of  her  father.  Her  hair 
was  that  golden  colour  that  seems  always  fading  off  into 
'>  >;  \  bronze  shade,  and  her  eyes  always  reminded  me 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  107 

of  t-he  violets  that  grew  when  I  was  a  girl  deep  in  the 
shadows  of  the  mountains." 

"  And  was  she  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful,  grandma  ?" 
I  whispered. 

The  old  lady  started  as  though  she  had  quite  lost  sight 
of  her  heaver.  "  Yes,  Luella,  Maurise's  nature  was  as 
pure,  and  gentle,  and  vine-like,  as  her  mother's  was 
cold,  stern,  and  self-reliant. 

Mrs.  Hillyard  loved  her  child  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  proud,  exclusive  nature,  and  so  Maurise's  feet  came 
up  through  green  paths  to  her  early  womanhood. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  at  a  fair  in  the  old  church, 
Austin  Enfield  met  Maurise  Hillyard.  He  was  a  young 
physician,  who  had  received  his  diploma  the  previous 
winter.  He  was  poor,  his  mother  was  a  widow  residing 
in  an  adjoining  village,  and  it  was  reported  that  she  had 
hound  shoes,  and  so  defrayed  a  portion  of  her  son's  ex 
penses  through  college.  But,  physically  arid  intellectu 
ally,  Dr.  Enfield  was  a  noble  specimen  of  young  man 
hood,  and  I  do  not  wonder  when  the  deep,  rich  tones  of 
his  voice  first  greeted  the  ear  of  Maurise  Hillyard,  that 
her  graceful  head  was  turned  quickly,  and  her  blue  eyes 
looked  eagerly  in  his  face. 

They  were  mutually  fascinated.  The  young  doctor 
possessed  peculiar  conversational  talent,  and  in  our 
quiet,  out-of-the-way  village,  Maurise  had  never  met  his 
equal. 

Well,  they  went  home  to  dream  of  each  other,  I  sup 
pose,  and  the  next  day,  as  Maurise  was  walking  out,  the 
doctor  met  her,  and  judging  by  the  length  of  their  ab* 


108'  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY. 

sonce  they  must  have  achieved  quite  a  pedestrian  feat 
that  afternoon. 

The  doctor  had  engaged  to  pass  that  summer  at  Val 
ley  Falls ;  hence  he  and  Maurise  were  thrown  constantly 
together. 

Mrs.  Ilillyard  was  an  indulgent  mother.  She  was 
proud  of  the  attentions  her  daughter  received,  as  the 
doctor  was  quite  the  lion  of  Valley  Falls,  and  very  inju 
diciously  (considering  her  ambitious  projects  for  her 
daughter's  future)  allowed  the  doctor's  visits. 

You  have  guessed  the  rest,  Luella,  I  see  it  in  your 
eyes. 

One  night,  in  early  September,  the  doctor,  as  was  his 
custom,  accompanied  Maurise  home  from  singing  school. 
They  paused  in  the  old  grove  of  pines,  where  you  say 
the  wind  is  always  singing  mournful  love  ballads.  There 
the  young  doctor  told  the  story  of  his  love. 

Maurise's  shadow-filled  eyes  were  very  bright  with 
tenderness,  as  she  answered,  "  If  mamma  consents,  I 
will  be  yeur  wife,  Austin." 

They  went  home ;  the  doctor  left  her  at  her  mother's 
gate;  Maurise  went  in,  laid  her  bright  head  in  her  mo 
ther's  lap,  and  told  her  what  she  had  said. 

"  Maurise,  my  daughter,"  and  for  the  first  time  those 
calm,  low  tones  sent  a  chill  to  the  girl's  heart.  "  You 
Bhall  never  be  the  wife  of  Austin  Enfield." 

"  But,  mother,  I  love  him  so,  it  will  break  my  hear.t 
to  give  him  up.  I  cannot,  I  cannot !"  Maurise's  voice 
crushed  down  her  sobs  as  she  repeated  it. 

The  night  was  coming  up  into  the  gray  shadows  of 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  109 

morning,  before  the  mother  and  daughter  separated.  It 
had  been  a  season  of  extreme  suffering  to  both. 

Maurise  had  proved  that  she  inherited  some  of  the 
character  and  firmness  of  her  parent. 

All  the  mother  could  urge  in  defence  of  her  adverse 
position  was  the  poverty  of  the  doctor,  and  his  family's 
want  of  social  eminence. 

"  I  never  can,  I  never  will  give  my  consent,  Maurise," 
she  repeated.  "  You,  whom  I  yet  hope  to  see  the  wife 
of  one  of  the  first  men  in  our  country — you,  wedded  to 
a  beggar !" 

"A  beggar!  mamma."  The  sweet  face  flushed  with 
anger.  "  For  the  sake  of  your  child,  do  not  couple  that 
name  with  Austin  Enfield." 

"  Well,  he  is  neither  rich  nor  honourable  among  men. 
If  he  were,  you  should  have  my  consent  to  your  union. 
As  it  is,  I  shall  never  grant  it." 

"  Don't,  mother,  unless  you  would  kill  me,  say  this ! 
Only  tell  me,  if  he  wins  riches  and  distinction,  I  may 
be  his  wife.  We  are  both  young,  and  can  wait  many 
years,  and  patiently." 

And  the  mother  looked  on  the  pleading,  tear-stained 
face  of  her  child,  and  the  woman  that  was  in  her  re 
lented. 

"  If  he  earn  wealth,  and  can  place  you  in  a  social 
position  which  will  do  you  honour  to  be  his  wife,  then, 
and  only  then,  Maurise,  will  I  consent." 

The  next  day  the  doctor  called.  Mrs.  Hillyard  had 
a  long  interview  with  him. 

It  was  decided  that  Maurise  should  wait  five  yeara, 


110  GRANDMOTHER'S  STDRY. 

and  that  during  that  time  no  intercourse,  except  what 
passed  under  the  mother's  supervision,  should  occur 
between  them. 

The  doctor  was  to  leave  Valley  Falls  immediately. 
If  he  was  successful  in  his  profession  during  that  pe 
riod  ;  if  he  could  place  Maurise  in  an  elevated  social 
position,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  Mrs.  Hillyard  would 
no  longer  oppose  their  union. 

"  You  have  heard  my  stipulations.  You  can  accede 
to  them  or  not.  I  have  only  presented  them  because 
this  thing  involves  the  happiness  of  my  child,"  was  the 
not  very  flattering  conclusion  of  Mrs.  Hillyard's  remarks 
that  morning. 

But  the  doctor  was  young,  and  his  nature  was  high 
and  hopeful.  Moreover,  he  loved  Maurise  as  he  could 
never  again  love  woman ;  so  he  said  to  her  stately  mo 
ther, 

"  I  will  accede  to  your  propositions,  Mrs.  Hillyard, 
hard  as  they  seem  to  me.  In  five  years,  if  God  pros 
pers  me,  I  will  come  back,  and  claim  your  daughter." 

The  young  couple  had  a  brief  interview  that  morning, 
and  then  they  separated  for  five  years. 

Time  wore  on.  Dr.  Enfield  went  to  Europe  to  seek 
that  fortune  which  alone  would  entitle  him  to  the  hand 
of  Maurise ;  for,  in  her  last  interview  with  him,  the  girl 
had  said, 

"  Austin,  I  will  never  wed  any  other  man ;  but,  even 
as  your  wife,  I  could  not  be  happy  with  the  curse  of  my 
mother  on  our  union." 

Two  years  went  by.  Austin  wrote  very  hopefully  to 
his  beloved,  and  she  had  begun  to  dream  of  the  time 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  Ill 

when  her  bright  head  should  lie  again  in  the  sheltering 
of  his  arms. 

It  Avas  in  the  soft  June  days  that  a  gentleman,  who 
was  travelling  through  the  interior  of  the  state,  stopped 
one  Siturday  afternoon  at  Valley  Falls,  and,  as  it  was 
late,  concluded  to  wait  till  Monday  before  prosecuting 
farther  his  journey. 

On  the  Sabbath  he  attended  morning  service,  and 
there  he  saw  Maurise  Hillyard.  I  remember  how  she 
looked  that  morning  as  though  I  had  seen  her  yester 
day.  Her  new  blue  hat  harmonized  so  completely  with 
her  pure  complexion,  and  its  drooping  lilies  of  the  valley 
trembled  against  her  flushed  cheeks  as  she  came,  grace 
ful  and  reed-like,  up  the  old  church  aisle,  behind  her 
mother. 

The  rustle  of  her  lilac  silk,  the  waving  of  her  em 
broidered  cape,  yet  live  in  ray  memory ;  and  the  small 
fingers  clasped  over  her  hymn  book  come  back,  to  com 
plete  the  sweet  vision  of  early  womanhood. 

Mr.  Wilmot,  the  stranger,  was  a  middle-aged  and 
noble-looking  man,  with  that  indefinable  air,  made  up  of 
courtliness  and  character,  which  at  once  distinguishes 
the  accomplished  gentleman. 

He  had  borne,  with  undisturbed  equanimity,  the  cu 
rious  glances  of  the  five  hundred  eyes  that  greeted  his 
entrance  into  the  old  church ;  but  when  Maurise  passed 
before  him,  a  sudden  start  and  a  visible  change  came 
over  the  gentleman's  face. 

She  sat  where  he  could  have  a  distinct  view  of  her 
face  during  the  service;  and,  it  must  be  admitted,  his 
eyes  wandered  oftener  to  the  maiden  than  to  the  'minis- 


112  GRANDMOTHER'S  STCRY 

ter  that  morning — and  I  doubt  not  but  her  mother, 
though  she  sat  calm  and  erect  as  usual,  was  quite  aware 
of  this  fact. 

Mr.  Wilmot  did  not  leave  Valley  Falls  the  next  day, 
as  he  stated  to  his  host  he  should  do. 

It  was  very  easy  for  him  to  procure  an  introduction 
to  Mrs.  Hillyard  and  her  daughter,  which  he  did, 
through  the  intervention  of  the  squire,  that  same  even 
ing. 

Mrs.  Hillyard  learned,  through  this  latter  gentleman, 
that  Mr.  Wilmot  was  a  widower  and  a  millionaire ;  and 
from  that  hour  the  ambitious  mother  formed  a  project, 
wrhich  her  bright  child,  who  was  to  be  its  victim,  little 
dreamed  of. 

No  eiforts,  within  the  mother's  limited  means,  had 
been  spared  to  render  Maurise's  education  equal  to  the 
position  which  her  parent  had  dreamed  always  she 
should  occupy,  and  Mr.  Wilmot  found  the  country  girl 
as  intelligent  as  she  was  beautiful. 

He  was  exceedingly  agreeable  in  manner  and  conver 
sation,  and  he  was  so  much  older  than  Maurise,  and  his 
attentions  were  bestowed  in  such  a  quiet,  half-fatherly 
manner,  that  the  girl  little  suspected  what  an  intimate 
relation  they  had  with  her  future. 

So  she  laughed  and  sang,  she  walked  and  rode  with 
Mr.  Wilmot,  and  her  mother  looked  on,  with  her  sweet, 
cold  smile,  and  planned  and  exulted. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks,  business  imperatively  sum 
moned  Mr.  Wilmot  from  Valley  Falls.  The  night  before 
he  left  he  had  a  long  interview  with  Mrs.  Hilly ard  ;  and 
the  offer  he  made  her  child  was  certainly  a  flattering 


GRANDMOTHER' «j  STORY.  113 

one,  though  he  had  three  children,  and  was  as  old  aa 
Maurise's  father. 

"  I  will  give  your  child  an  old  name  and  an  honoura 
ble  one  ;  I  will  surround  her  loveliness  with  every  luxury 
that  pride  and  my  great  wealth  can  procure  ;  and  in  the 
home  to  which  I  shall  take  her,  her  beauty  and  her  in- 
tolligence  will  win  her  the  homage  they  deserve." 

And  the  mother  laid  up  his  words  in  her  heart,  and 
in  an  evil  hour  they  brought  forth  ruin,  despair,  and 
death. 

"Maurise,  my  child,  come,  and  sit  down  at  my  feet." 

The  mother's  voice  was  very  tender  that  evening,  and 
Maurise  went  to  her  feet,  and  laid  her  little  hands  in 
her  lap. 

And  then  her  mother  told  the  astonished  girl  the  proud 
offer  that  Mr.  Wilmot  had  made  her.  Oh  !  it  was  a 
gorgeous  future  the  ambitious  woman  painted  for  her 
child  !  A  future  to  dazzle  the  brain,  and  lead  astray 
the  heart  of  a  girl  of  twenty ;  and  thus  she  concluded, 
kissing  the  uplifted  forehead  : — 

"  And  now,  dear,  Mr.  Wilmot  said  he  would  return 
in  a  month  for  my  answer;  and  then  shall  I  not  tell  him 
my  Maurise  will  be  his  bride  ?" 

Those  blue,  bewildered  eyes  moved  not  from  the  lady's 
face  while  she  spoke ;  but  Maurise  answered, 

"  Mother,  have  you  forgotten  my  troth-plight  to 
Austin  Enfield?  I  can  never  marry  another  man." 

"  Nonsense,  my  child ;  it  is  quite  time  you  had  lost 
sight  of  that  foolish  dream  of  your  girlhood.  Your  life 
will  be  far  above  the  plodding  way  on  which  Austin  En- 


114  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY. 

field  would  take  you.  Oome,  it  is  high  time  you  should 
forget  him !" 

"Never,  never,  mother,  till  I  lie  down  where  my 
heart  will  put  aside  its  memories  for  ever,  will  it  forget 
Austin  Enfield !" 

She  syllabled  the  name  with  a  world  of  tenderness, 
as  she  sprang  from  her  mother's  feet,  her  eyes  bright 
ening  like  night-stars  off  which  rolls  suddenly  a  summer 
cloud. 

I  know  not  whether  it  is  true,  but  the  neighbours  say 
that  the  light  in  Mrs.  Hillyard's  drawing-room  burned 
again  till  the  gray  of  the  morning,  as  the  mother  and 
the  daughter  sat  there ;  and  they  say  more  than  this, 
that  at  last  the  proud  woman  knelt  at  the  feet  of  her 
daughter,  and  implored  her,  in  the  name  of  her  mother's 
love,  to  become  the  wife  of  Mr.  Wilmot. 

And  Maurise  answered  through  her  sobs,  as  she  cov 
ered  her  pale  face,  to  shut  out  the  vision  of  her  kneeling 
mother, 

"  I  cannot,  mother,  for  I  do  not  love  him  !" 

I  do  not  know,  Luella,  at  what  time  the  tempter  came 
to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Hillyard,  and  first  Avhispered  that 
dark  deed,  for  whose  perpetration  she  paid  so  dearly.  I 
know  not  what  struggle  the  quiet  of  her  own  chamber, 
or  the  stars  of  midnight  witnessed.  I  only  know  that 
the  evil  conquered. 

"  Maurise,  I  have  had  a  letter  to-day.  Can  you  guess 
from  whom?" 

Maurise  could  not  see  her  mother's  face  as  she  said 
the  words,  for  the  lady  was  bending  over  her  sewing. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  115 

"No.  I'll  give  it  up  at  once,  mamma."  The  girl 
looked  up  from  her  book,  and  answered  indifferently. 

"  It  was  from  Austin  Enfield,  and  I  thought  you 
might  be  interested  in  its  contents." 

The  book  dropped  from  Maurise's  fingers.  Her  face 
grew  pale,  and  her  eyes  bright. 

"  What  did  he  say,  mamma  ?" 

"  Something  which  you  should  know,  my  child  ;  and 
yet  I  am  reluctant  to  tell  you,  for  fear  it  will  give  you 
pain." 

"No  matter.  Tell  me  quick,  mamma;  anything  is 
better  than  suspense."  Her  voice  was  quick  and  husky. 

And  Mrs.  Hillyard  told  her  daughter  that  the  doctor 
had  written  from  Italy,  requesting  that  their  engage 
ment  might  be  annulled — doubting  not,  as  he  said,  that 
the  matured  judgment  of  Miss  Hillyard  would  concur 
with  his  own  in  this  matter,  as  it  probably  originated  on 
her  part,  as  it  did  on  his,  in  a  childish  partiality,  of 
which  late  years,  more  especially  late  attachments,  h:;d 
taught  him  the  weakness. 

Maurise  rose  up,  and  went  to  her  mother's  side.  She 
was  very  calm,  but  the  shroud-plaits  were  never  drawn 
over  a  Avhiter  face. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  let  me  see  that  letter  !" 

Her  mother  took  it  from  her  pocket,  and  laid  it  in  her 
hands. 

And  Maurise  read  it ;  his  own  words  in  his  own 
handwriting.  She  gave  it  back  quietly,  as  she  had  re 
ceived  it. 

"  Come,  darling,  don't  look  so,  for  it  troubles  me. 


11G  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORI. 

lie  was  not  worthy  of  you,  and  I  would  forget  him  at 
once.  Shall  I  write  that  you  will  release  him?" 

Maurise  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"  Yes  ;  tell  him  this  without  delay.  At  least  I  will 
not  stand  in  the  way  of  his  happiness." 

Her  eyes  had  a  strange,  far-off  look  in  them  as  she 
eaid  the  words  ;  and  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  and 
with  her  second  step  sank  senseless  to  the  floor. 

"  And  he  did  not  write  that  letter,  the  doctor  did  not 
write  it,"  I  whispered,  drawing  closer  to  my  grandmo 
ther. 

"No,  dear.  She  wrote  it  herself,  the  day  before, 
with  his  last  letter  to  her  child  lying  before  her — that 
letter  full  of  the  great  love  and  the  high  hopes  that  were 
in  his  heart. 

I  must  hurry  through  with  the  remainder  of  my  sad 
history,  Luella,  for  the  sun  is  sloping  westward. 

In  a  month  Mr.  Wilmot,  as  he  had  stipulated,  return 
ed,  and  Mrs.  Hillyard  met  him  in  the  parlour,  and  whis 
pered, 

"  My  daughter  has  consented.  She  will  be  your 
wife." 

In  two  weeks  they  were  married.  There  was  a  wed 
ding  festival  such  as  Valley  Falls  had  never  witnessed. 
There  were  crowds  of  city  guests,  and  the  beauty  of 
Mr.  Wilmot's  village  bride  was  the  theme  of  all  their 
lips.  They  were  married  in  the  morning,  and  bridal 
croAvn  never  rested  on  brighter  head,  and  bridal  vows 
were  never  breathed  by  sweeter  lips;  and  yet,  ns  the 
sun  came  from  beninu  a  cioud,  and  »eil  like  a  sudden 
glory  all  about  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  her  face,  and 


GRANDMOTHER'S   STORT.  117 

chore  was  something  in  it  that  made  my  heart  ache  for 
uer. 

Two  years  had  passed.  The  spring  was  late  that  sea 
son,  and  in  the  early  June  the  tree  branches  were  swing 
ing  in  the  wind,  heavy  with  the  beautiful  blossoms  of 
May. 

Mrs.  Wilmot  has  come  home  to  pass  a  week  with  her 
mother.  Her  life  in  New  York  had  been  a  scene  of 
dazzling  triumph.  Her  beauty  and  her  elegance  had 
won  for  her  all  the  admiration  her  husband  had  pre 
dicted.  I  do  not  know  whether  she  was  happy.  I  only 
know  that  her  manners  had  a  calm,  stately  repose,  very 
unlike  the  ardent,  impulsive,  light-hearted  girl  we  re 
member  at  Valley  Falls.  But  that  summer  she  seemed 
more  like  her  old  self  than  ever.  She  went  down  in 
the  meadows,  and  off  in  the  springing  wheat  fields,  and 
again  the  old  echoes  woke  up  to  the  light  rich  laugh  of 
her  girlhood. 

Late  one  afternoon,  Mrs.  Wilmot  and  her  mother  sat 
together  in  the  old  sitting-room.  The  former  had  been 
relating,  to  her  proud,  attentive  listener,  a  history  of 
some  of  the  most  brilliant  parties  she  had  attended 
the  preceding  season,  the  dinners  she  had  given,  the 
toasts  that  had  been  drunken  in  her  honour,  and  matters 
of  like  character,  when  she  broke  off,  suddenly : — 

"  How  exquisitely  beautiful  those  apple-blossoms  are  ! 
Do  you  remember,  mamma,  how  I  used  to  twine  them  iu 
my  curls  every  May-time?  I  used  to  say  they  were 
prettier  than  diamonds ;  and  now  I  have  tried  these, 


118  GRANPMOTBER'S  STORY. 

I'll  see  if  my  old  taste  doesn't  hold  good  yet;"  and, 
springing  from  her  chair,  she  went  out  into  the  garden. 

The  little  hands  at  last  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
lowest  branch,  and  Mrs.  Wilmot  was  breaking  off  a  sprig 
of  the  white  blossoms,  when  the  stage  rolled  suddenly 
up  to  the  front  gate,  and  a  young  gentleman  alighted  a 
few  yards  from  her. 

He  looked  eagerly  over  the  grounds  and  building  until 
he  espied  Maurise ;  fhen  he  advanced  quickly  towards 
her.  He  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  cried,  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  glad  tenderness, 

"  Maurise,  Maurise,  I  have  come  back  to  you  !" 

The  lady  grew  white  as  the  blossoms  that  dropped 
around  her.  For  a  moment  her  light  figure  wavered  to 
and  fro  like  the  apple-branches ;  but  as  the  young  man 
attempted  to  seize  her  hand,  she  drew  it  hastily  away, 
and  stood  very  still  as  she  sternly,  scornfully  confronted 
him. 

"  How  dare  you  address  me  thus,  Austin  Enfield, 
when  you  yourself  first  forfeited  the  right  to  do  it ; 
when  I  am  now  the  wife  of  another  ?" 

He  sprang  from  her  as  though  suddenly  electrified. 
His  face  was  whiter  even  than  hers,  and  for  a  moment 
it  worked  fearfully  as  he  stared  at  her,  apparently  not 
comprehending  what  she  had  spoken. 

"  Maurise,  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  remember  the  letter  you  wrote, 
requesting  our  engagement  might  be  broken  ;  and  why 
have  you  come  now,  when  I  was  growing  happy  again, 
to  disturb  my  wedded  peace?" 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  Ill) 

She  hardly  knew,  In  her  excitement,  what  she  vraa 
sayi'ng,  but  she  was  turning  from  him. 

"  Maurise  !  Maurise  !"  He  sprang  into  her  path,  and 
held  her  back.  "  Hear  me  !  You  shall  hear  me  !  I 
never  wrote  such  a  letter ;  I  never  dreamed  of  such  an 
act.  God  is  my  witness,  I  never  did  it !" 

They  went  back  together,  and  talked  for  an  hour, 
under  the  still  shadows  of  the  great  apple-tree.  What 
they  said  there,  God  only  knows ;  but  when  Doctor  En- 
field  went  out  from  it,  he  looked  ten  years  older. 

Maurise  rose  up.  The  sun  had  gone  over  the  hill. 
She  went  slowly  towards  the  house,  still  holding  the 
crushed  apple-blossoms  in  her  hands. 

Her  mother  came  to  the  door  to  meet  her ;  but  she 
started,  and  drew  back,  when  she  looked  in  her  face. 

Her  child  drew  up  to  her,  and  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"  Mother,  Doctor  Enfield  has  just  come  out  from  the 
garden  gate.  We  have  learned  all.  You  have  betrayed 
your  child,  and  broken  her  heart !"  And  she  went  up 
stairs,  to  her  own  room,  and  her  mother  could  not  an 
swer  her. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  report  through  Valley  Falls 
that  Mrs.  Wilmot  had  been  suddenly  seized  with  brain- 
fever,  and  that  Mrs.  Hillyard  herself  was  hardly  able 
to  leave  her  apartment. 

The  best  physicians  and  the  most  skilful  nurses  were 
procured.  But  each  night  the  reports  were  less  favour 
able — the  younger  lady  was  no  better,  but  rather  grew 
worse. 

I  was  acquainted  with  the  nurse  who  attended  Mau 
rise  during  her  illness.  She  was  truly  a  judicious,  faith* 


120  GRANDMOTHER'S  STJRY. 

ful  woman ;  but  she  has  since  confidently  told  me  it  was 
the  saddest  sick-bed  she  ever  watched  over.  Her  moans 
for  Austin  Enfield  ;  her  shrieking  entreaties  to  her  mo 
ther  ;  her  wild  prayers  for  help,  were  sounds  which 
would  haunt  her  memory  till  all  sound  would  to  her  be 
silence. 

One  night  (I  must  hasten  over  this,  Luella,  for  I  can 
not  dwell  on  it)  Mrs.  Wilmot  seemed  quieter  than  she 
had  been  for  several  previous  days,  and  the  nurse,  whom 
constant  watching  had  completely  exhausted,  left  the 
sick  lady  in  charge  of  a  woman  who  had  been  hired  the 
previous  day,  to  occasionally  relieve  her  in  her  arduous 
duties. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  the  nurse  rose  and  went  into 
Mrs.  Wilmot's  room.  The  night-lamp  was  burning 
dimly  on  the  table,  and  the  watcher  sat  by  it  in  a  heavy 
slumber ;  but  the  bed  was  empty  !  the  sick  woman  was 
gone  I 

The  house  was  alarmed ;  the  neighbourhood  was 
aroused,  and  that  night  Valley  Falls  was  vainly  search 
ed  for  the  sick  woman.  I  cannot  describe  the  agonies 
of  the  frantic  mother,  to  which  remorse  must  have  added 
a  tenfold  bitterness,  although  no  one  at  the  time  dream 
ed  of  this.  She  had  seen  her  daughter  but  twice  during 
her  illness,  having  been  carried  thither  both  times,  as 
Bhe  was  too  feeble  to  walk. 

Dr.  Enfield  was  riding  down  to  Valley  Falls,  from  a 
neighbouring  village,  the  next  morning.  He  had  heard 
of  Maurise's  illness,  and  he  knew,  as  none  but  her  mo 
ther  did,  the  circumstances  which  had  occasioned  it 
He  could  not  leave  the  vicinity  while  she  remained  in 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  121 

this  state,  and  accordingly  came  down  each  day  to  learn 
the  reports  of  her  health. 

His  road  lay  near  the  bank  of  the  river.  Th'e  cur 
rent  is,  as  you  know,  a  very  strong  one,  and  as  the  doc 
tor  looked  off  on  the  blue  waters  rolling  out  in  the 
morning  sunshine,  something  white  arrested  his  atten 
tion.  He  was  half  convinced  it  must  be  the  body  of  a 
woman,  as  he  strained  his  eyes  to  distinguish  the  object, 
for  he  could  see  the  long  yellow  hair  floating  on  the 
waves. 

Something  in  that  bright  hair  sent  a  chill  to  the  doc 
tor's  heart.  He  tried  to  alight,  but  he  sank  back  in  his 
carriage,  and  a  strange  faintness  came  over  the  strong 
man. 

Some  men  were  working  in  a  meadow,  a  few  rods  dis 
tant.  The  doctor  made  a  sign  to  them,  and  they  came 
to  his  carriage.  He  pointed  to  the  object  in  the  river. 

Two  of  the  men  sprang  in  immediately,  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  body,  and  bore  it  ashore.  Then  the  doc 
tor  looked  down  on  the  cold,  dead  face,  round  which  la} 
the  wet,  bright  hair,  and  he  saw " 

"  Oh,  grandma,  don't  say  it  was  Maurise  ;  don't, 
don't!"  I  cried,  shuddering  through  my  sobs,  as  I  laid 
my  arms  about  her  waist. 

My  grandmother  answered  only  by  her  tears,  and  they 
fell  thick  as  raindrops  on  my  bowed  head. 

"  They  carried  her  home,  (she  continued  at  i'ast.)  Her 
mother  saw  them  coming  up  the  walk,  and,  weak  as  she 
was,  rushed  out,  and  met  them  on  the  steps.  One  long, 
wild,  eager  look  she  gave  to  that  dead  face.  Then  the 
truth  broke  upon  her.  She  thrust  her  arms  upward, 


122  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY. 

with  a  laugh  that  curdled  the  blood  in  the  very  veins  of 
those  that  heard  it,  and  from  that  hour  to  this  she  has 
been — what  you  have  seen  her,  Luella." 

"  And  her  husband  and  the  doctor — what  became  of 
them,  grandma?" 

"A  messenger  was  despatched  for  the  former,  and 
the  broken-hearted  husband  came,  and  sawr  all  that  was 
left  of  his  beautiful,  his  idolized  Maurise.  He  had  not 
been  apprised  of  her  illness,  as  Mrs.  Hillyard  had  for 
bidden  this,  fearing,  I  suppose,  that  in  her  delirious 
ravings  her  daughter  might  reveal  more  than  it  was  well 
he  should  know. 

But  the  doctor  attended  her  funeral.  She  was  buried 
by  her  father ;  -and  before  the  two  gentlemen  left  they 
had  a  long  interview.  It  is  supposed  that  all  was  re 
vealed  at  that  time  to  Mr.  Wilmot.  Both  gentlemen 
probably  felt  that  God's  retribution  was  fearful,  and 
greatly  as  she  had  sinned,  they  must  have  pitied  the 
wretched  mother. 

The  doctor  returned  to  Europe.  I  have  never  heard 
from  him  since.  Mr.  Wilmot  married  again  some  three 
years  after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

It  is  generally  believed  that  Maurise  left  the  house 
that  night,  and  threw  herself  into  the  river,  in  a  state 
i)f  high  delirium,  produced  by  brain-fever ;  but  the  cause 
of  that  fever  is  known  by  few." 

"  There,  Luella,  goes  the  supper-bell !  Come,  my 
shild,"  and  my  grandmother  lifted  my  face,  and  kissed 
•t  tenderly. 

The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  the  twilight  was  build- 


1   DREAMED   OF   MY    MOTHER.  123 

ing  up  its  shadows  in  the  corners  of  the  bedroom.  The 
wind  had  taken  up  a  new  hymn,  the  soft  doxology  of  the 
day.  The  quiet  and  the  beauty  filled  my  heart  with  a 
prayer : — 

"  May  God  keep  me  from  the  sin  of  pride !" 
"  Amen !"  said  my  grandmother,  as  we  rose  up,  and 
went  out. 


I  DREAMED  OF  MY  MOTHER. 

I  DREAMED  of  my  mother,  and  sweet  to  my  soul 
Was  the  brief-given  spell  of  that  vision's  control : 
I  thought  she  stood  by  me,  all  cheerful  and  mild 
As  when  to  her  bosom  I  clung  as  a  child. 

Her  features  were  bright  with  the  smiles  that  she  wore, 

When  heeding  my  idle-tongued  prattle  of  yore ; 

And  her  voice  had  that  kindly  and  silvery  strain 

That  from  childhood  had  dwelt  in  the  depths  of  my  brain. 

She  spoke  of  the  days  of  her  girlhood  and  youth — 
Of  life  and  its  cares,  and  of  hope  and  its  truth  ; 
And  she  seemed  as  an  angel  just  winged  from  above, 
To  bring  me  a  message  of  duty  and  love. 

She  told  of  her  thoughts  at  the  old  village  school — 

Of  her  walks  with  her  playmates  when  loosed  from  its  rule— 

Of  her  rambles  for  berries,  and  when  they  were  o'er 

Of  the  mirth-making  groups  at  the  white  cottage  door. 

She  painted  the  garden,  so  sweet  to  the  view, 
"\\  here  the  wren  made  its  nest  and  the  pet-flowers  grew — 
Of  the  trees  that  she  loved  for  their  scent  and  their  shade. 
Where  the  robin,  and  wild-bee,  and  humming-bird  played. 


124  I   DREAMED   OF   MY   MOTHER. 

And  she  spoke  of  the  greenwood  which  bordered  the  fan*. 
Where  her  glad  moments  glided  unmixed  with  alarm — 
Of  the  well  by  the  wicket,  whose  waters  were  free, 
And  the  lake  with  its  white  margin  traversed  in  glee. 

And  she  pondered  delighted  the  joys  to  retrace 
Of  the  family  scenes  of  that  ruralized  place,— 
Of  its  parties  and  bridals,  its  loves  and  its  spells — 
Its  heart-clinging  ties,  and  its  saddened  farewells. 

She  pictured  the  meeting-house,  where,  with  the  throng, 
She  heard  the  good  pastor,  and  sang  the  sweet  song — 
Of  the  call  from  the  pulpit, — the  feast  at  the  shrine, 
And  the  hallowed  communings  with  feelings  divine. 

"  And  listen,  my  son  !"  she  did  smilingly  say, 
"  If  'tis  pleasant  to  sing  it  is  sweeter  to  pray — 
If  the  future  is  bright  in  the  day  of  thy  prime, 
That  brightness  may  grow  with  the  fading  of  time. 

"  As  the  bow  bringeth  promise  while  arching  the  skies, 
With  its  beautiful  glory  emblazed  on  the  eyes — 
Though  blended  with  ether  its  loveliness  fade, 
The  splendour  is  lost  not,  but  only  delayed. 

"  What  healing  like  hope's  shall  the  mourners  restore, 
When  their  sad  bosoms  sigh  over  pleasures  no  more, 
As  back  to  the  place  of  departure  they  gaze, 
Where  the  moonlight  of  memory  mellowly  plays  ? 

"  But  thy  present,  my  son,  as  its  brief  moments  flee, 
Is  the  prize  to  be  seized  and  be  cherished  by  thee — 
'Tis  the  earnest  of  joys  that  no  time  can  impair, 
And  is  linked  with  a  peace  that  I  may  not  declare. 

"  And  when  the  frail  strength  of  humanity  fades, 
And  darkness  the  eye-ball  of  nature  invades, 
From  thy  Pisgah  of  Hope  'twill  be  sweet  to  behold 
What  a  Canaan  of  glories  her  hand  has  unrolled. 


I    DREAMED   OF    MY    MOTHER.  125 

"  Look  up  to  thy  Maker,  my  son,  and  rejoice  !" 
Was  the  last  gentle  whisper  that  came  from  that  voice, 
While  its  soft  soothing  tones  on  my  dreaming  ear  fell, 
As  she  glided  away  with  a  smiling  farewell. 

There  are  dreams  of  the  heavens,  and  dreams  of  the  earth, 
And  dreams  of  disease  that  to  phantoms  give  birth, 
But  the  hearer  of  angels,  awake  or  asleep, 
Has  a  vision  to  love,  to  remember  and  keep. 

I  woke  from  the  spell  of  that  visit  of  night, 
And  inly  communed  with  a  quiet  delight, 
And  the  past,  and  the  present,  and  future  surveyed, 
In  the  darkness  presented,  by  fancy  arrayed. 

I  thought  of  the  scenes  when  that  mother  was  nigh, 
In  a  soft  sunny  land  and  beneath  a  mild  sky, 
When  at  matins  we  walked  to  the  health-giving  spring, 
With  the  dew  on  the  grass,  and  the  birds  on  the  wing. 

Of  the  draughts  at  the  fount  as  the  white  sun  arose, 
And  the  views  from  the  bluffs  where  the  broad  river  flows— 
Of  the  sound  from  the  shore  of  the  fisherman's  strain, 
And  the  sight  of  the  ship  as  it  sailed  to  the  main. 

Of  the  wild-flowers  plucked  from  the  glen  and  the  field, 
And  the  beauties  the  meadows  and  gardens  revealed — 
Of  all  that  she  paused  to  explain  or  explore, 
'Till  I  learned  in  my  wonder  to  think  and  adore. 

And  of  joys  that  attended  the  fireside  scene, 
When  woodlands  and  meadows  no  longer  were  green — 
Of  the  sports,  and  the  tales,  and  the  holiday  glee, 
That  ever  were  rife  at  that  fond  mother's  knee. 

Of  the  duties  of  home,  and  the  studies  of  school, 
With  the  many  delights  that  divided  their  rule, 
'Till  the  sunshine  of  boyhood  had  ended,  and  brought 
The  cares  and  the  shadows  of  manhood  and  thought. 


126  MOTHERS,   DO   YOU   SYMPATHIZE 

And  I  sighed  for  the  scenes  that  had  faded  away — 
For  the  forms  that  had  fallen  from  age  to  decay — 
For  the  friends  who  had  vanished,  while  looking  before 
To  paths  that  their  feet  were  forbid  to  explore. 

And  glancing  beyond,  through  the  vista  of  time, 
With  a  soul  full  of  hope,  and  with  life  in  its  prime, 
Though  flowers  by  memory  cherished  had  died, 
Life's  garden  was  still  with  some  blossoms  supplied. 

And  oft  as  that  dream  to  my  spirit  comes  back, 

A  newness  of  thought  re-illumes  my  track ; 

For  it  seems  as  a  spell  undefined  and  alone, 

Of  something  concerned  with  the  vast  and  unknown. 


MOTHERS,  DO  YOU  SYMPATHIZE  WITH  YOUR 
CHILDREN? 

ROBERT  MOLTON  was  very  fond  of  his  aunt  Mury. 
Nothing  ever  gave  him  greater  pleasure  than  the  per 
mission  to  spend  a  few  days  with  her — he  loved  so  dearly 
to  listen  to  her  stories.  Indeed,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  sit 
down  at  any  time  and  have  a  talk  with  Aunt  Mary,  if 
she  did  not  tell  a  single  story.  Robert  could  hear  to 
hear  her  talk,  even  about  his  faults,  far  better  than  he 
could  bear  it  from  any  other  person.  But,  for  some 
reason,  Robert  was  a  better  boy  and  exhibited  fewer 
faults  when  with  Aunt  Mary,  than  at  any  other  time. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Robert  to  his  aunt  Mary,  one  day, 
"  that  mother  would  talk  to  me  as  you  do.  If  she 
would,  I  believe  I  should  be  a  better  boy  when  I  am  at 
home." 


WITH   YOUR   CHILDREN?  127 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Robert,"  replied  his  aunt; 
•'  1  am  sure  you  have  one  of  the  kindest  of  mothers,  who 
loves  you  as  well  as  a  hoy  can  ask  to  be  loved." 

"1  know  my  mother  loves  me,"  Robert  replied. 
"  She  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  me,  I  really 
believe :  but  when  I  do  anything  she  does  not  like,  she 
lon't  talk  to  me  as  you  do,  but  she — " 

Here  an  awkward  pause  ensued.  Aunt  Mary  waited 
for  Robert  to  finish  his  sentence,  but  it  was  left  un 
finished  after  all.  Robert  was  going  to  say,  "  she 
does  scold  so,  it  makes  me  so  angry,"  but  he  well  knew 
that  his  aunt  Mary  would  not  approve  of  his  talking  in 
that  way  about  his  mother.  He  tried  to  think  of  some 
other  word  which  would  express  the  same  thing,  and  be 
less  exceptionable,  but  of  all  the  words  in  the  English 
language  which  occurred  to  him,  no  other  word  but 
"scold"  would  express  the  idea  he  Avished  to  convey — 
so  he  gave  it  up. 

Aunt  Mary  could  guess  pretty  well  what  was  passing 
in  Robert's  mind ;  but  as  she  did  not  wish  to  enter  into 
conversation  upon  that  subject,  she  encouraged  Robert 
in  a  general  way  to  try  and  be  a  good  boy,  when  he 
returned  home,  and  then  began  to  talk  of  something 
else. 

"I  will  be  a  good  boy  to-day,"  said  Robert  to  himself, 
the  morning  after  his  return  from  his  Aunt  Mary's.  "  I 
will  try  to  be  as  good  a  boy  at  home  as  I  am  when  at 
Aunt  Mary's." 

Robert  had  an  irritable  temper.  A  trifle  would  make 
him  angry,  and  then  would  come  an  outburst  of  passion. 
These  fits  of  passion  were  met  by  those  reproofs  whic-h 


128          MOTHERS,  DO  YOt  SYMPATHIZE 

were  administered  in  such  a  manner,  and  with  such 
tones  of  voice,  that  they  certainly  seemed  to  Robert 
more  like  scolding  than  like  anything  else ;  arid  were 
by  no  means  calculated  to  restore  calmness  to  his 
irritated  feelings. 

Robert  was  aware  of  his  weakness,  and  knew  if  he 
wished  to  be  a  good  boy  that  day  he  must  set  a  double 
watch  upon  his  temper.  This  he  tried  to  do. 

The  morning  was  not  far  advanced,  however,  before 
his  brother,  next  older  than  himself,  said  something 
which  vexed  Robert  very  much.  His  eye  kindled,  his 
cheeks  were  flushed,  and  on  his  tongue  was  the  angry 
retort.  But  just  then  he  thought  of  his  morning's 
resolution,  and  with  a  mighty  effort  forced  back  the 
burning  words. 

Robert  instinctively  turned  to  his  mother,  to  see  if 
the  conflict  and  the  victory  had  heen  observed  by  her ; 
but  no  word  or  glance  of  hers  gave  any  intimation  that 
she  had  taken  note  of  the  moral  conflict  which  had  been 
transpiring  close  by  her  side,  or  of  the  moral  victory 
that  had  been  achieved.  Yet  she  had  seen  it  all.  She 
heard  the  remark  of  George,  and  knowing  the  irritable 
temper  of  Robert,  had  expected  an  outburst  of  passion ; 
but,  as  it  did  not  occur,  she  merely  congratulated  herself 
that  she  had  not,  as  she  expected,  been  annoyed  by  an 
angry  altercation  between  her  sons,  and  dismissed  the 
subject  from  her  thoughts. 

Robert  felt  disappointed  and  discouraged.  He  could 
could  but  say  to' himself,  "  If  Aunt  Mary  were  here,  she 
might  not  have  said  a  word ;  but  the  very  glance  of  hoi- 
eye  would  have  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  do,  '  I 


WITH    YOUR   CHILDREN  ?  129 

understand  it  all,  Robert.  You  have  done  bravely.  I 
know  you  have  had  a  hard  battle,  and  I  congratulate 
you  most  heartily  for  the  victory  you  have  gained.' ' 

How  amply  would  Robert  have  been  rewarded  by 
such  a  smile  of  approbation*  for  all  it  had  cost  him  to 
suppress  his  angry  feelings ;  and  how  would  his  soul 
have  been  strengthened  for  another  conflict ! 

But  did  not  his  mother  know  that  it  had  cost  her  son 
something  to  control  his  temper,  and  keep  back  the 
angry  words  which  had  all  but  escaped  ?  Could  she  not 
read  the  language  of  that  flashing  eye  and  flushed  face, 
and  could  she  not  know  that  there  was  a  work  for  her 
to  do  even  when  reproof  and  condemnation  were  not 
called  for  ? 

Robert  did  not  reason  very  deeply  on  the  subject,  but 
he  felt  that  if  it  was  right  for  his  mother  to  condemn 
when  he  did  wrong,  it  was  no  more  than  right  that  she 
should  observe  and  approve  when  he  did  right.  But, 
though  discouraged,  and  feeling  much  like  a  soldier 
fighting  alone,  he  resolved  to  persevere  yet  longer,  and 
see  if  he  could  not  be  a  good  boy  all  that  day. 

An  hour  or  two  more  passed.  Robert  had  taken  out 
his  building  blocks,  and  was  very  busily  engaged  in 
erecting  a  building,  upon  which  he  was  bestowing  a 
good  deal  of  thought  and  contrivance.  It  was  nearly 
completed,  and  he  was  just  about  to  call  his  mother'a 
attention  to  it,  and  ask  if  he  had  not  done  well,  when 
his  little  sister,  in  playing  about  the  room,  chanced  to 
upset  a  chair,  which,  in  falling,  upset  in  its  turn  the 
building  Robert  was  so  carefully  rearing.  Robert  felt 
very  angry — so  angry  that  he  even  raised  his  hand  to 


130  MOTHERS,   DO   YOU    SYMPATHIZE 

Btrike  his  little  sister.  But  again  he  thought  of  his 
morning's-  resolution,  and  immediately  girded  himself  to 
the  great  work  of  ruling  his  own  spirit.  It  was  a  hard- 
fought  battle,  but  Robert  was  conqueror.  The  uplifted 
hand  fell  gently  by  his  side,  and  not  even  an  angry 
•word  escaped  him. 

His  mother  was  sitting  near,  engaged  with  a  book. 
When  Robert's  edifice  fell,  she  was  disturbed  with  the 
thought,  "  Now  we  shall  have  a  storm!"  but  when  all 
passed  off  quietly,  and  the  expected  storm  did  not  come, 
she  resumed  her  reading  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction 
that  the  affair  had  passed  off  so  smoothly,  but  without 
bestowing  one  approving  glance  upon  the  moral  hero 
who  stood  in  her  presence,  although  that  hero  was  her 
own  son. 

Robert  was  discouraged  from  continuing  the  unaided 
struggle.  He  had  spent,  as  it  were,  all  his  moral 
courage  in  this  last  conflict,  and  all  he  had  gained,  as 
respected  his  mother,  was  freedom  from  reproof.  The 
next  time  he  was  tempted,  he  yielded  almost  without  a 
struggle.  His  mother's  reproof,  which,  as  usual,  fol 
lowed  instantly  upon  the  offence,  stung  him  to  the 
quick.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  the  injured  party. 

"I  have  tried  all  day,"  he  said  to  himself,  uto  be  a 
good  boy,  and  mother  has  taken  no  notice  of  it.  I  did 
not  speak  angrily  to  George,  this  morning,  when  he  pro 
voked  me  so;  and  I  said  not  a  word  to  Lucy  for  her 
knocking  down  my  house,  but  mother  never  so  much  as 
smiled  upon  me,  when  I  was  trying  to  be  good ;  but  if  J 
get  angry  ever  so  little,  I  hear  of  it  quickly  enough.'" 

The  more  Robert  thought  of  these  things,  the  ir.ore 


WITH   YOUR   CHILDREN  ?  131 

out  of  temper  he  grew.  He  did  not  any  longer  try  to 
control  himself,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  day  was  so 
peevish,  it  was  hardly  safe  to  speak  to  him. 

Now  it  was  not  from  any  want  of  love  for  her  son 
that  Mrs.  Molton  erred  so  greatly  in  her  management 
of  him.  As  Robert  had  said,  she  loved  him  well  enough 
to  do  almost  anything  for  him ;  but  she  did  not  cultivate 
a  hearty  sympathy  with  him.  "  What  if  his  sister  did 
throw  down  his  play-house?  It  was  only  a  play-house, 
a  very  small  thing  to  be  angry  about,  and  he  did  not 
deserve  much  credit  for  not  getting  angry  about  such  a 
trifle." 

Now  this  reasoning  was  wrong,  all  wrong.  If  this 
mother  had  placed  herself  back  to  the  days  of  her  own 
early  childhood,  and  candidly  asked  herself  how  she 
would  then  have  felt  about  the  very  same  thing,  she 
would  have  felt  that  it  was  not  a  trifle  to  Robert,  and 
she  would  have  learned  an  invaluable  lesson  of  sym 
pathy  for  her  child  in  his  childish  struggles,  conflicts, 
and  victories. 

The  exhibition  of  such  sympathy  was  just  what  Robert 
needed  to  encourage  him  in  the  efforts  which  he  really 
did  often  make  to  overcome  his  faults.  All  he  asked 
was  that  these  efforts  should  be  appreciated.  A  smile 
of  approbation,  as  the  reward  of  one  such  successful 
effort  as  Robert  had  made  that  day,  would  have  done 
more  to  aid  him  to  overcome  his  violent  temper  than 
all  the  reproofs  he  had  ever  received. 


PASSING  THROUGH  THE  FIRE. 

"  HAVE  you  come  to  a  decision,  Mrs.  Bradford?" 

"Yes,  sir."  This  was  meant  to  be  firmly  spoken  ;  but 
there  was  a  low  tremor  in  the  soft,  sad  voice  of  the  pale 
young  woman,  in  widow's  weeds,  who  answered,  that 
betrayed  more  feeling  than  she  wished  to  manifest. 

"  You  will  let  Edward  come?" 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  I — I — " 

"Oh,  very  well!  very  well!"  said  the  visitor,  in  an 
impatient  tone  of  voice.  "Just  as  you  please,  ma'am." 
And  he  arose  quickly,  and  commenced  buttoning  his 
coat  across  his  breast.  "  It's  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
me — wholly  so.  As  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Bradford's,  1 
thought  it  but  right  to  make  this  offer  for  the  benefit  of 
his  son.  Not  that  it  is  of  any  special  importance  to 
me ;  for  I  can  have  my  pick  of  a  dozen  lads  quite  as 
bright  as  your  boy,  and  as  well  suited  for  my  purpose. 
To  Edward  I  have  given  the  preference,  out  of  regard 
to  his  father.  You  decline  my  offer  to  take  him,  and 
that  ends  the  matter.  I  have  done  my  duty." 

Mr.  Gardiner — that  was  the  man's  name — turned 
partly  away,  and  made  a  step  towards  the  door.  Mrs. 
Bradford,  instead  of  seeking  to  prevent  his  abrupt  depar 
ture,  shrunk  deeper  in  the  chair  that  supported  her  slen 
der  person.  How  strong  a  contrast  presented  between 
the  two  !  one  a  stout,  confident,  easy-to-do  in  the  world, 
self-reliant  man  ;  the  other  a  weak,  almost  friendless, 
sad  and  desponding  woman. 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  133 

With  bis  hand  upon  the  door,  Mr.  Gardiner  paused, 
and  looked  back,  half  proudly,  upon  the  sorrowing  widow 
of  his  early  friend,  whose  eyes,  cast  down,  ventured  not 
to  meet  his  gaze. 

"  Think  again,  ma'am,"  said  he  coldly,  almost  severely. 

"I  have  thought  it  all  over,  Mr.  Gardiner,"  was 
answered  in  a  firmer  voice  than  the  man  expected  to 
hear.  At  the  same  moment  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Bradford 
were  lifted  to  his  face.  Steadily  she  gazed,  until  his 
eyes  fell  to  the  floor. 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over,"  she  repeated,  "  and  my 
decision  has  not  been  made  without  a  long  and  painful 
struggle.  For  your  kind  preference,  believe  me.  I  am 
grateful ;  and  I  thank  you  for  it  in  the  name  of  him  who, 
when  living,  you  called  your  friend.  But  I  cannot 
accept  the  advantage  you  offer  my  son." 

"Good  morning,  ma'am."  The  words  were  said  ab 
ruptly,  almost  rudely.  A  moment  after,  and  the  door 
closed  heavily. 

"Mother,"  said  a  lad,  who,  until  now,  had  remained 
a  silent  observer  of  what  passed  between  his  mother  and 
her  visitor,  "  why  won't  you  let  me  go  to  Mr.  Gardiner's' 
I'm  sure  he  offered  us  very  fair.  Three  dollars  a  week 
for  the  first  year ;  and  after  that  as  much  more  as  I  might 
be  worth  to  him.  That  was  what  he  said." 

Edward  had  come  to  the  side  of  his  mother ;  and  stood 
looking  quite  soberly  into  her  face.  It  was  clear,  from 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  that  he  was  not  pleased  with  her 
decision. 

"  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  have  as  good  an  offer  again. 


134  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE 

He  wanted  me,  and  said  he'd  do  Avell  by  me,"  added  the 
boy,  pettishly. 

"  I  have  not  declined  this  proposition  of  Mr.  Gardi 
ner's  without  good  reason,  Edward."  Mrs.  Bradford 
spoke  with  gentle  earnestness,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes  as  she  lifted  them  to  the  fine,  manly  face  of 
her  son. 

"I'll  never  have  another  chance  like  this,"  said  Ed 
ward. 

"A  chance. for  what?"  asked  his  mother. 

"  Mr.  Gardiner  is  a  rich  man,"  said  the  boy. 

"  I  know  he  is,"  was  answered. 

"  He's  doing  a  large  business." 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  promised  to  do  well  by  me." 

"  He  did.  And  yet,  Edward,  it  was  best  for  me  to 
decline  his  oifer ;  and  the  day  will  come,  I  trust,  when 
you  will  see  this  as  clearly  as  I  do." 

The  boy  was  far  from  being  satisfied.  The  necessity 
for  entering  upon  some  employment  was  imperative  ;  that 
he  clearly  understood,  and  his  mind  was  made  up  to  do 
his  part  bravely.  Two  places  were  offered  for  his  accept 
ance,  one  in  the  large  wholesale  store  of  Mr.  Gardiner, 
arid  the  other  in  the  counting-room  of  a  Mr.  Lee,  a 
young  man  of  small  means,  who  had  just  started  a  com 
mission  business.  Mr.  Lee  could  offer  no  salary  for  the 
first  year ;  and  this  was  a  serious  drawback,  for  Mrs. 
Bradford's  income  was  exceedingly  limited — insufficient, 
in  fact,  for  the  comfortable  maintenance  of  herself  and 
eon. 

In  deciding   between  the   two   situations    offered  to 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  135 

Edward,  she  had  suffered  a  strong  conflict.  The  fairest 
promise  of  worldly  advantage  for  her  son  was  on  the  side 
of  the  rich  merchant ;  but  she  had  no  confidence  in  his 
principles.  That  he  lacked  integrity  of  character,  and, 
in  business,  was  guilty  of  practices  which  her  clear  sense 
of  what  was  right  between  man  and  man  hesitated  not 
to  class  as  dishonest  actions,  she  knew  through  her  hus 
band,  who  had  become  attached  to  him  early  in  life,  but 
in  later  years  had  withdrawn  himself  from  an  intimate 
association. 

James  Lee  was  the  younger  brother  of  a  very  dear 
friend,  and  a  man  of  different  stamp  from  Gardiner.  lie 
had  been  carefully  educated — morally  as  well  as  intellec 
tually — and  bore  the  reputation,  among  all  with  whom 
he  had  any  intercourse,  of  a  just  man.  This  was  the 
reason  why  Mrs.  Bradford  decided  to  place  Edward  in 
his  care,  instead  of  accepting  the  more  advantageous  offer 
of  Mr.  Gardiner.  In  looking  to  the  future  of  her  child, 
she  had  a  regard  for  something  more  permanent,  more 
to  be  desired,  and  more  soul-satisfying,  than  wealth  or 
position.  Of  all  things,  she  wished  to  see  him  grow  up 
a  true  man.  Not  a  mere  self-seeker ;  net  one  who.  to 
elevate  himself,  would  coldly  tread  down  the  weak,  or 
wrong  the  helpless  and  ignorant.  She  had  tried  to  make 
Edward  comprehend  the  wide  difference  between  the 
characters  of  these  two  men,  and  the  great  injury  he 
might  sustain  in  coming  under  the  influence  and  control 
of  Mr.  Gardiner.  But  Edward  saw  only  the  worldly 
advantage  that  was  promised,  and  perceived  in  his 
mother's  objections  only  idle  fears. 

Thus  was  Mrs.  Bradford's  trial  made  only  the  more 


1J6  PASSING    THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

severe.  If  there  had  been  cheerful,  or  even  dutiful 
acquiescence  on  the  part  of  her  son,  her  feelings  on  the 
occasion  would  have  been  of  a  less  painful  character. 
But  she  was  resolute.  The  place  offered  by  Mr.  Lee 
was  accepted,  and  Edward  entered  his  counting-room, 
simply  in  obedience  to  his  mother's  wishes. 

When  it  became  known  among  the  friends  of  Mrs. 
Bradford  that  she  had  refused  to  let  Edward  go  into 
Mr.  Gardiner's  store,  she  was  severely  blamed.  A  bro 
ther  of  her  late  husband  said  many  harsh  things  to  hci 
on  the  subject ;  and  some  that  she  felt  to  be  insulting. 
But  she  did  not  waver,  even  though  family  estrange 
ments  followed,  and  she  was  left  still  more  alone  in  the 
world. 

One  of  the  false  views  of  life  which  Mrs.  Bradford 
had  now,  under  the  teaching  of  stern  necessity,  to  un 
learn,  was,  that  for  a  woman  to  work  for  money  had  in 
it  something  degrading.  From  childhood  up  to  this 
period,  all  things  needful  for  life  and  comfort  had  been 
provided  for  her  by  the  hands  of  others.  Father  and 
husband  had  kept  her  above  the  sphere  of  care  as  to 
what  we  shall  eat,  or  what  we  shall  drink,  or  where 
withal  be  clothed ;  and  insensibly  she  had  come  to  feel 
something  like  contempt  for  all  women  who  were  com 
pelled  to  toil  for  the  bread  that  perisheth. 

How  all  was  changed  now !  The  mother's  pure  love 
lifted  her  out  of  this  obscurity,  and  she  saw  a  meaning 
in  the  words  that  pronounced  him  greatest  of  all  \\}\o 
became  servant  of  all,  that  never  before  came  even  dimly 
to  her  perceptions.  All  hopes,  all  aspirations,  all  pur 
poses  in  life,  were  now  terminated  in  the  future  welfare 


PASSING    THROUGH    THE    FIRE.  137 

of  her  son ;  and  for  his  sake  she  was  ready  to  do  and 
sacrifice  all  that  a  true  and  loving  heart  can  do  and  sacri 
fice  in  this  world. 

As  Edward  would  receive  nothing  for  the  first  year, 
and  as  the  meagre  remnant  of  property  that  survived  to 
her  after  the  settlement  of  her  husband's  estate  was  in 
sufficient  for  the  support  of  herself  and  son,  Mrs.  Brad 
ford  now  began  to  revolve  in  her  mind  the  ways  and 
means  of  procuring  an  additional  income 

"What  shall  I  do?"  How  earnestly,  even  tearfully, 
did  she  ask  this  question  !  How  earnestly  and  tearfully 
is  it  daily  asked  by  thousands,  who,  like  Mrs.  Bradford, 
are  thrown  upon  the  Avorld,  and  made  wholly  dependent 
on  their  feeble  resources !  Yet  to  whom  comes  a  clear, 
confident  answer  ? 

The  education  of  Mrs.  Bradford  had  not  been  thorough. 
A  little  of  almost  everything  taught  in  fashionable 
schools  she  had  learned;  yet  nothing  had  been  so  fullj 
acquired  as  to  give  her  a  teacher's  proficiency.  She  had 
a  fair  acquaintance  with  French,  and  could  speak  it  with 
some  fluency  ;  but  possessed  no  critical  knowledge  of  the 
language.  She  could  draw  tolerably  well ;  but  had  no 
taste  for  the  beautiful  art.  For  years  her  music  had 
been  neglected.  So  far,  therefore,  as  her  early  edu 
cation  was  concerned,  it  availed  her  little  or  nothing  in 
the  present  trying  position  of  affairs. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  How  sadly,  almost  hopelessly, 
over  and  over  again  did  Mrs.  Bradford  repeat  these 
words !  and  yet  there  was  not  even  an  echo  to  the 
question. 

One  day  it  was  mentioned  in   her  presence  that  the 


138  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

matron  of  a  certain  charitable  institution  had  resigned  her 
place,  and  that  the  Board  of  Directors  were  about  appoint 
ing  another.  It  flashed  through  her  mind  that  here  was 
a  chance  for  her ;  but  with  the  thought  pride  awoke,  anil 
her  cheeks  burned  as  she  imagined  herself  in  the  position 
of  a  matron  where  she  had  once  been  a  lady  patroness. 
"For  a  time  she  shrunk  away  into  herself,  ind  pushed  the 
thought  afar  off.  But  turn  which  way  she  would,  no  light 
from  any  other  quarter  broke  through  the  clouds  that 
gathered  above  her,  black  as  midnight. 

Nearly  a  month  had  gone  by  since  Edward  entered  the 
counting-room  of  Mr.  Lee.  From  the  beginning  he 
had  looked  sober  and  seemed  spiritless.  To  him  the 
present  was  cheerless,  and  the  future  lured  him  on  with 
no  bright  promise.  A  school  companion,  named  Henry 
Long,  had  obtained  the  situation  with  Mr.  Gardiner,  and 
it  so  happened  that  the  two  lads  met  almost  every  day. 
Their  conversation  naturally  turned  upon  their  relative 
positions ;  and  the  contrasts  which  were  drawn,  always 
left  Edward's  mind  in  a  state  of  dissatisfaction.  The 
business  of  Mr.  Gardiner  was  very  heavy,  his  employees 
numbering  over  one  hundred ;  while  in  the  store  and 
counting-room  of  Mr.  Lee  were  only  Edward  and  a  por 
ter.  Mr.  Lee  kept  his  own  books ;  Mr.  Gardiner  was, 
moreover,  a  "liberal"  man — generous  towards  his  clerks, 
and  not  over  particular  in  regard  to  them,  provided  they 
were  always  in  place  and  active  during  business  hours. 
There  was  in  the  whole  operations  of  his  large  establish 
ment,  an  imposing  progression,  which,  in  contrast  with 
the  intermitting  and  lighter  operations  of  the  young  com- 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  139 

mission  merchant,  made  the  latter  appear  in  the  eye  of 
Edward,  almost  contemptible. 

He  came  home  one  evening,  after  one  of  his  talks  with 
Henry  Long,  considerably  fretted  at  what  he  chose  to 
think  the  great  injustice  practised  by  his  mother  in  refus 
ing  to  let  him  accept  the  place  which  had  been  offered  by 
Mr.  Gardiner.  On  that  very  day,  a  favourable  answer 
had  been  received  by  Mrs.  Bradford  to  her  application 
for  the  situation  of  matron  in  an  Orphan  Asylum. 

She  had  not  spoken  to  Edward  on  the  subject,  and  he 
had  no  suspicion  of  what  was  in  her  mind.  Itow  to 
break  it  to  him,  was  now  the  subject  of  her  thoughts. 
That  he  would  oppose  her,  she  knew ;  and  the  more 
strongly,  because  it  involved  the  breaking  up  of  their 
home.  And  was  it  just  to  him  for  her  to  do  so  ?  That 
was  still  a  question,  ever  recurring,  though  answered 
over  and  over  again — conclusively,  the  mother  tried  to 
tliink. 

Edward  came  in  with  his  usual  quiet  step.  There  was 
no  smile  on  his  lip  as  he  glanced  into  his  mother's  face ; 
and  though  she  tried  to  smile  an  evening  welcome  home, 
there  was  only  a  feeble  ray  upon  her  countenance  that 
Boon  faded. 

"  Edward,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  as  they  were  about 
leaving  the  tea-table,  almost  compelling  herself  to  intro 
duce  a  subject  that  could  no  longer  be  kept  back, — "  we 
shall  have  to  make  a  change  in  our  mode  of  life." 

The  boy  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  I  need  not  say,  my  son,  that  we  are  very  poor," 
she  added ;  "  too  poor  even  to  maintain  our  present  style 
of  living." 


140  PASSINGS   THROUGH  THE   FIRE. 

"Well,  mother,  whose  fault  is  it?"  Edward  spoko 
coldly — nay,  severely. 

"  I  do  not  charge  it  as  the  fault  of  any  one,"  answered 
Mrs.  Bradford. 

"  I  do,  then,"  was  the  quick  response.  Accusatioo 
and  rebuke,  both,  were  in  the  boy's  tones. 

"  Upon  whom  ?"  The  mother  looked  him  firmly  in  the 
face. 

"It  is  your  fault,"  said  he. 

"Edward!" 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  mother.  But  for  your  refusal  to 
let  me  accept  the  offer  of  Mr.  Gardiner,  I  might  now  be 
receiving  three  dollars  weekly,  which  would  help  a  great 
deal." 

"  In  that  small  gain  would  have  been,  I  fear,  the  seed 
of  an  infinite  loss,  my  son."  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Brad 
ford  trembled,  and  her  eye  grew  suddenly  dim. 

"  Uncle  Bradford  said  that  was  all  a  woman's  silly 
notion,  and  I  believe  him." 

Edward  uttered  this  with  a  cruel  thoughtlessness,  and 
his  words  pierced  the  heart  of  his  mother.  A  little 
while  she  looked  with  a  rapidly  changing  countenance 
into  his  face — looked  half  timidly,  but  oh !  so  sorrow 
fully  ;  and  then  leaning  down  until  her  forehead  rested 
upon  the  table  at  which  she  sat,  sobbed  out  loudly,  while 
her  body  shook  as  with  a  convulsion. 

Touched,  but  not  subdued  by  this  effect  of  his  hard 
words,  Edward  arose  and  commenced  walking  the  room 
hurriedly.  Gradually  Mrs.  Bradford  regained  possession 
of  her  feelings,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  was  able  to  com 
mand  her  voice  entirely. 


PASSING    THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  141 

"  I  have  looked  to  your  good  alone,  my  son,"  said  she ; 
"  and  time  will  prove  that  I  did  not  err  in  accepting  the 
place  you  have,  instead  of  the  one  offered  by  Mr.  Gardi 
ner.  Do  your  mother  at  least  the  justice  to  believe  that 
she  was  governed  by  no  selfish  consideration.  But  to 
recur  to  what  I  wished  to  say  in  the  beginning.  We  are 
too  poor  to  retain  even  this  humble  home.  Providen 
tially,  however,  in  this  our  extremity,  a  way  has  been 
opened.  This  afternoon  I  received  notice  that  I  was 

appointed  matron  in  the Orphan  Asylum.     The 

salary  is  five  hundred  dollars." 

Edward's  face  flushed  suddenly,  and  then  grew  pale  as 
ashes.  lie  had  continued  walking  the  floor  with  uneasy 
step,  but  now  he  stood  still,  gazing  upon  his  mother  with 
a  strange,  doubting,  startled  look. 

"  With  this  income,"  she  added,  "  and  no  expense  of 
rent  or  housekeeping,  I  shall  be  able  to  support  you  com 
fortably,  until  your  services  in  Mr.  Lee's  counting-room 
command  a  salary.  The  only  drawback  in  the  matter  is 
the  giving  up  of  our  home." 

The  whole  manner  of  the  boy  underwent  a  change. 
Without  speaking,  he  moved  across  the  room  to  where 
his  mother  still  sat,  and,  bending  down,  laid  his  head 
upon  her  bosom,  and  burst  into  tears.  Not  only  was 
his  pride  wounded  at  the  thought  of  her  taking  the  place 
of  a  matron  in  an  orphan  asylum ;  he  was  touched  by  so 
strong  a  manifestation  of  her  self-sacrificing  love  for  him. 
And  he  had,  moreover,  an  oppressive  sense  of  loneli 
ness-  -home-sickness  it  might  almost  be  called — as  the 
idea  of  separation  from  his  mother  presented  itself 
vividly. 


142  PASSING    THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

"You  will  not  go  there,  dear  mother,"  he  sobbed,  lift 
ing  his  tearful  face  from  her  bosom. 

"  It  would  be  wrong,  under  present  circumstances,  for 
me  to  refuse  the  offer,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 

"You  cannot  do   it — you  must  not  do  it,  mother!' 
Edward  spoke  with  rising  warmth. 

"  There  is  no  alternative,  my  son." 

"Don't  say  so,  mother.     Wait,  wait." 

"Wait  for  what,  Edward?" 

"  1  can,  I  will  earn  something.  I  must  support  you, 
not  you  support  me.  My  hands  are  ready,  and  my 
heart  willing.  No — no — you  shall  not  go  there." 

"  Mr.  Lee  cannot  pay  you  a  salary  at  present." 

"  Then  I  must  find  some  one  who  can,"  was  the  reso 
lute  answer. 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  leave  Mr.  Lee's  service.  I 
know  it  will  be  best  for  you  in  the  end  to  remain  with 
him,"  interposed  Mrs.  Bradford. 

"I  cannot  work,  starving,"  said  the  lad,  bitterly. 

"  Calm  yourself,  Edward."  The  mother  spoke  ear 
nestly  and  tenderly.  "  Trust  something  in  my  judg 
ment.  Time  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  right  in  what 
I  propose  doing." 

"Right  to  take  from  me  my  home?"  said  the  boy, 
with  a  mournfulness  in  his  voice  that  thrilled  on  his 
mother's  heart-strings,  and  started  in  her  mind  a  new 
train  of  thoughts.  Yes,  it  would  be  taking  from  him 
his  home,  poor  and  humble  though  it  was ;  for  when  she 
entered  upon  the  matron's  duties,  he  would  go  among 
btrangers  ;  and  who  could  tell  whether  the  new  relations 
into  which  he  must  come,  would  be  for  good  or  evil  ? 


PASSING    TIIIlOIJGn   THE   FIRE.  143 

And  now  Mrs.  Bradford's  purpose,  so  firmly  settled, 
began  to  waver. 

'  You  have  not  yet  accepted  the  offer  ?V  inquired  Ed 
ward,  after  his  excitement  of  feeling  had  in  a  measure 
subsided,  and  thought  began  to  flow  on  in  a  clearer 
current. 

"No,  but  I  will  be  expected  to  give  an  answer  at 
once." 

"Can  it  be  put  off  until  the  day  after  to-morrow?" 

"It  might." 

"Then  don't  say  yes,  to-morrow;  don't,  mother! 
Promise  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"  But  what  will  it  avail,  my  son  ?" 

"  Only  wait,  mother,"  urged  the  lad  eagerly.  "Say 
that  you  will  wait." 

"I  need  not  give  the  answer  to-morrow;  and  if  you 
so  earnestly  desire  it,  I  will  not." 

Eduard  saii  no  more,  but  from  that  moment  his 
thoughts  were  indrawn,  and  he  remained  during  the 
evening  in  a  state  of  deep  distraction.  All  the  powers 
of  his  young  mind  he  was  taxing  for  a  solution  of  one 
of  life's  intricate  problems.  He  was  in  a  more  tranquil, 
hopeful  state  on  the  next  morning ;  for  he  had  come  t ) 
a  decision,  and  that  was,  to  tell  the  story  of  his  mother's 
extremity,  and  ask  from  Mr.  Lee  either  the  payment  of 
a  salary,  or  a  release  from  his  engagement. 

Mr.  Lee  heard  his  story,  and  it  awakened  a  strong 
interest  in  favour  of  the  lad,  for  he  was  a  man  of  generous 
Bympathies.  But  the  question  of  paying  Edward  a  salary 
was  one  that  he  could  not  easily  decide.  His  business 
was  only  in  its  forming  stage,  and  in  commencing  it,  ho 


144  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

had  graduated  his  expenses  to  the  very  lowest  scale.  It 
was  part  of  his  calculation  to  do  without  a  clerk  for  the 
first  year ;  and  to  take  an  office  boy,  who  would  be  compen 
sated  for  his  services  during  at  least  that  period  by  the 
knowledge  of  business  he  would  acquire.  This  economi 
cal  arrangement  of  his  affairs  was  not,  in  any  sense,  the 
offspring  of  meat,  cupidity;  nor  was  it  grounded  in  a 
principle  of  injustice  to  others.  It  was  only  a  measure 
of  prudence,  the  dictate  of  a  clear  judgment.  "Little 
boats  keep  near  the  shore,"  was  one  of  his  safe  axioms. 

"  I  will  think  about  this,  Edward,"  he  answered, 
kindly,  after  the  boy  had  told  his  story,  "and  see  what 
can  be  done.  I  like  your  manly  spirit,  and  right  feeling 
towards  your  mother." 

There  was  something  so  cheerful  and  encouraging  in 
Mr.  Lee's  voice,  that  the  lad  felt  his  heart  bound  with 
hope.  The  fact  was,  on  this  very  morning,  the  young 
commission  merchant  had  received  a  letter  from  a  large 
manufacturing  establishment  at  the  East,  notifying  him 
of  a  handsome  consignment  of  goods,  and  promising  to 
keep  him  supplied.  The  goods  were  in  demand,  and 
sales  could  be  made  to  some  of  the  best  houses  in  the 
city.  From  this  source  alone,  his  profits  would  be 
several  hundred  dollars  in  the  year. 

Mr.  Lee  was  not  one  of  those  men  whose  sympathy 
for  others  grows  narrower,  as  the  dawn  of  a  more  pros- 
serous  day  begins  to  break  along  the  murky  horizon. 

"  I  am  glad  for  his  sake,  as  well  as  for  my  own,"  was  . 
•he  thought  which  flitted  through  his  mind,  after  Edward 
nad  t^ld  his  story,  "  that  a  favourable  change  in  business 
prriST)(V£s  has  just  occurred.     I  can  now  afford  to  paj 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  145 

him  something ;  and  I  will  do  it.  A  lad  with  such  a 
spirit  deserves  encouragement." 

As  Edward  was  about  leaving  the  counting-room  at 
dinner-time,  Mr.  Lee  said  to  him, 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  told  me  this 
morning,  and  I  have  every  disposition  to  meet  your 
wishes.  My  business,  as  you  know,  is  yet  small,  and 
the  income  from  it  limited.  But  I  have  just  received 
some  better  consignments,  with  the  promise  of  liberal 
shipments  of  goods,  from  a  large  manufactory.  Yes 
terday,  I  do  not  think  your  application  would  have  met 
with  a  favourable  answer.  Now  I  can  offer  you  a  salary 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  the  first  year." 

Tears  sprung  to  the  lad's  eyes,  and  he  could  not 
restrain  the  impulse  that  prompted  him  to  seize  the 
hand  of  Mr.  Lee. 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  a  light  broke 
over  his  face. 

"But  that  sum,"  added  Mr.  Lee,  "will  not  go  far 
towards  supporting  yourself  and  mother." 

"  Mother  has  a  small  income;  and  this  will  help  very 
much.  I  think  she  can  make  it  do." 

Mr.  Lee  mused  for  some  moments. 

"  I've  been  thinking  since  you  spoke  to  me  this 
morning — " 

Mr.  Lee  paused,  and  seemed  turning  something  over 
in  his  mind,  that  was  not  altogether  clear  to  him. 

"  I've  been  thinking,  perhaps,  you  might  do  same- 
thing  for  yourself,"  he  at  length  said. 

Edward's  face  brightened. 

"  There  are  some  little  articles  in  which  you  might 
10 


146  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

trade  safely.  In  breaking  bales  of  goods,  for  instance, 
pieces  of  rope  and  bagging  accumulate.  For  these  odds 
and  ends  there  is  a  sale.  I  know  two  or  three  stores 
where  you  can  buy  the  article,  and  I  know  where'  you 
can  sell  it  at  a  small  advance.  It  will  take  so  small  a 
portion  of  your  time  and  attention  that  I  can  have  no 
objection,  and  the  matter  is  so  simple  and  safe  that  you 
will  run  no  risk." 

The  light  faded  from  the  boy's  face ;  observing  which, 
Mr.  Lee  said, 

"  It  does  not  strike  you  favourably." 

"  I  have  no  money  to  buy  with,"  was  the  dispirited 
answer. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  came  the  cheerful  response,  "no 
very  large  capital  will  be  required.  Ten  or  fifteen 
dollars  will  start  you  in  the  business,  and  I  can  supply 
that." 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  was  Edward's  grateful 
answer.  A  few  moments  he  stood  with  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the 'floor — then  moving  away  he  left  the  counting- 
room,  and  hurried  home  to  communicate  the  good  news 
to  his  mother.  As  he  ascended  the  stairs,  leading  to 
the  apartments  they  occupied,  he  heard  the  voice  of  a 
man  in  his  mother's  room,  and  on  opening  the  door,  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  cold  face  of  his  Uncle  Bradford.  A 
brief  and  distant  greeting  took  place,  and  then  the 
visitor  said  to  the  widow  of  his  brother, 

*'  The  salary  is  a  liberal  one,  and  will  make  you  very 
comfortable.  I  am  glad  you  were  so  fortunate  as  to 
secure  the  appointment.  You  may  not  know  that  you 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  147 

are  in  a  good  measure  indebted  to  me  for  your  success. 
I  made  interest  for  you  in  an  influential  quarter." 

"  Mother  is  not  going  there,"  said  Edward,  abruptly, 
fie  -was  unable  to  keep  back  the  words  that  leaped  to  his 
tongue. 

Mr.  Bradford  turned  suddenly  upon  the  boy,  and 
scowled  darkly. 

"Not  going  where,"  he  asked. 

"Not  going  to  be  a  matron  in  an  orphan  asylum," 
answered  Edward,  firmly. 

"  She  isn't,  ha !"  Mr.  Bradford's  lip  had  a  sneer 
upon  it ;  and  he  looked  first  at  the  boy  and  then  at  his 
mother. 

"No,  sir,  she  isn't  going."  And  Edward  stood  up 
and  returned  the  gaze  of  his  uncle  with  so  steady  a 
look,  that  Mr.  Bradford  felt  irritated  beyond  measure. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  he,  in  an  offended  voice — 
"  very  well — if  you  are  master  here,  I  have  nothing  to 
say."  And  he  arose,  and  took  two  or  three  hurried 
steps  across  the  room.  At  the  door  he  paused  and 
glanced  back  towards  Mrs.  Bradford,  who  looked  be 
wildered,  and  almost  frightened  at  the  unexpected 
rencontre,  so  to  speak,  between  Edward  and  his  uncle. 

"It's  no  use,  I  find,"  said  he,  speaking  severely, 
"  for  me  to  try  to  do  anything  for  you.  My  advice  has 
not  been  taken  in  a  single  instance  since  my  brother's 
death ;  and  now  I  shall  just  let'  you  go  your  own  way. 
You  were  silly  enough  to  refuse  Mr.  Gardiner's  excellent 
offer  to  take  Edward.  There  isn't  a  more  advantageous 
place  in  the  city — his  fortune  would  have  been  made. 


49  PASSING    THROUGH    THE    FIRE. 

I'm  out  of  all  patience  with  you !  But,  gang  y'r  ain 
gait — gang  y'r  ain  gait !  It  will  be  all  the  same  to  me. 
And  just  bear  this  in  mind — don't  call  on  me  to  help 
you  out  of  any  of  the  troubles  your  stupidity  may 
create." 

And  Mr.  Bradford  went  off  in  a  passion,  leaving  the 
widow  in  tears. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother  dear — don't  cry,"  said  Edward, 
tenderly,  coming  to  the  side  of  his  weeping  parent,  and 
laying  his  face  to  hers.  "You're  not  going  to  the 
Asylum.  Mr.  Lee  says  he  will  pay  me  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  for  the  first  year,  and  that  is  as  much 
as  Mr.  Gardiner  promised.  He  spoke  very  kindly  to 
me ;  and  said  he  would  show  me  how  I  could  trade  a 
little  for  myself,  and  make  a  few  dollars  now  and  then. 
Oh,  mother!  I  feel  such  a  weight  taken  from  my  heart." 

Mrs.  Bradford  could  not  answer  in  words,  but  she 
drew  the  boy's  face  tightly  to  her  breast,  and  kissed 
over  arid  over  again,  fervently,  his  pure  white  forehead. 

"  Mr.  Lee  is  a  true  man,"  she  said,  when  she  could 
trust  herself  to  speak.  "  He  is  not  rich,  like  Mr.  Gar 
diner;  but  he  has  a  larger  heart,  my  son." 

Edward  raised  himself  up,  and  looked  earnestly  al 
his  mother.  Her  words  seemed  to  have  light  in  them, 
and  made  things  clear  which  were  before  in  obscurity. 

"A  kind,  true  heart,  Edward.,"  the  mother  added, 
"is  worth  more  than  gold;  and  you  can  trust  it  better." 

"Mr.  Lee  has  a  kind,  true  heart,"  said  the  lad, 
speaking  as  if  to  himself. 

"  That  I  have  known  for  years,  Edward,"  answered 
his  mother;  "and  he  has  not  only  a  true  heart,  but  just 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  149 

and  honourable  principles.  It  was  for  this  reason  that 
I  decided  against  Mr.  Gardiner  and  in  his  favour.  I 
knew  it  would  be  better  for  you  in  the  end  to  be  under 
his  care ;  and,  already,  this  is  becoming  apparent  even 
in  your  eyes." 

Serious  thought  was  now  given  by  Mrs.  Bradford  to 
the  subject  of  accepting  or  declining  the  appointment 
which  she  had  just  received.  Would  it  be  right  for 
her,  under  the  circumstances,  to  refuse  an  offer  of  five 
hundred  dollars  a  year  ?  Another  such  opportunity 
would  hardly  again  occur.  If  she  did  refuse,  the  act 
would  estrange  certain  friends  who  had  interested  them 
selves  in  her  behalf;  and  in  case  of  future  extremity,  no 
dependence  could  be  placed  on  their  kind  offices.  As 
these  and  other  considerations  were  revolved,  her  mind 
came  into  a  bewildered  state  ;  and  she  was  sorely  op 
pressed  by  doubts.  Edward  opposed  her  acceptance, 
and  begged  her  not  to  take  from  him  his  home,  humblo 
and  obscure  though  it  might  be. 

"  I  will  live  in  a  garret  with  you,  mother,"  he  said. 
"Anywhere — I  will  be  contented  with  poor  food  and 
plain  clothing,  until  I  grow  older." 

If  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Bradford  had  in  any  respect 
turned  inwards  upon  herself — if,  in  thinking  of  a  clear 
income  of  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  her  imagination 
had  pictured  a  condition  of  freedom  from  care  and 
worldly  anxieties,  every  selfish  impulse  was  stifled  now. 
"What  will  be  best  for  my  boy?"  That  was  the 
earnestly  asked  question,  and  upon  that  turned  a  de 
cision  of  the  case.  Clearly,  now,  she  saw  the  dangers 
to  which  Edward  would  be  exposed,  if  removed  from 


150  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

her  loving  care — her  watchful  guardianship — and  sho 
wondered  within  herself  that  this  had  not  vividly  pre 
sented  itself  before. 

"We  will  remain  together,  my  son,"  were  her  calmly 
spoken  words,  after  all  was  decided  in  her  mind;  "and 
if  we  can  only  get  bread  to  eat  and  water  to  drink,  wo 
will  share  them,  and  be  thankful  that  the  worse  evil  of 
separation  is  yet  far  from  us." 

Both  mother  and  son  had  passed  through  what  to 
them  was  a  fiery  trial,  but  now  they  saw  with  a  purer 
vision ;  now  they  felt  stronger  to  endure,  and  had  a 
better  hope  for  the  future. 

When  the  purpose  of  Mrs.  Bradford  was  made  known 
to  her  friends,  and  they  became  aware  of  the  slender 
support  she  had  chosen,  instead  of  the  comfortable 
income  which  had  been  offered  for  her  acceptance,  they 
were  greatly  displeased,  and  censured  her  strongly; 
even  going  so  far  as  to  charge  her  with  lack  of  energy, 
and  insinuating  that  both  pride  and  indolence  had 
conspired  to  effect  her  decision.  She  bore  the  storm 
meekly,  for  she  knew  that  the  words  of  self-justification 
she  could  speak  would  not  be  understood.  Estrange 
ment  from  her  husband's  relations  was  the  consequence, 
and  an  almost  total  exclusion  from  the  old  social  circles. 

Patiently  and  hopefully  she  bore  all  this,  for  her 
earnest,  self-devoted  love  for  Edward  gave  clearness  to 
her  vision,  and  she  saw  that  she  was  moving  in  the  right 
Tray.  Very  poorly  did  they  live  on  their  slender  income, 
but  day  after  day  was  the  widow's  heart  made  glad  by 
the  knowledge  that  her  son  was  gradually  learning  to 
estimate  truly  the  character  of  Mr.  Lee,  and  to  imbibe 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  151 

from  him  those  higher  principles  of  action  by  which  hii 
own  life  was  governed.  True  to  his  promise  to  Edward, 
the  latter  had  not  only  advanced  him  a  small  sum  of 
money  to  purchase  certain  articles  in  which  he  might 
freely  traffic,  but  had  advised  him  where  and  how  to 
buy,  and  where  to  sell.  From  this  source  the  lad  was 
soon  in  receipt  of  light  profits,  that  were  never,  from 
the  beginning,  less  than  five  or  six  dollars  a  month ;  all 
of  which  was  given  to  his  mother. 

One  evening  Edward  said  to  his  mother,  "  Henry 
Long  told  me  something  about  Mr.  Gardiner,  to-day, 
that  don't  seem  to  me  just  right.  I'm  sure  Mr.  Lee 
wouldn't  have  done  such  a  thing." 

"What  was  it,  my  son?"  asked  Mrs.  Bradford. 

"  Henry,  in  looking  over  an  "account  which  a  mer 
chant  from  the  country  had  just  settled,  discovered  an 
error  of  a  hundred  dollars  against  the  merchant.  He 
showed  it  to  Mr.  Gardiner,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  '  Mr. 

told  us  that  he  wouldn't  leave  until  six  o'clock  thia 

afternoon.  Shall  I  go  round  to  the  hotel,  and  see  him 
about  it  ?' 

"  '  No  !'  was  Mr.  Gardiner's  answer.  '  Let  him  find 
it  out  himself,  which  he  will  do,  if  he  is  sharp  enough ; 
and  if  he  is  not,  he  deserves  to  lose  it.' ' 

"  That  is  dishonest,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  with  much 
gravity  of  manner. 

"  So  I  told  Henry ;  but  he  laughed,  and  said  Mr. 
Gardiner  was  keen,  and  knew  how  to  take  care  of  num- 
l^r  one." 

•'  And  did  Henry  Long  make  so  light  of  a  wicked 
iction?  I  thought  better  of  him  than  that,  my  son.' 


152  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

"  He  wouldn't  have  made  light  of  it,  I  am  sure,  when 
we  went  to  school  together.  Then  he  was  a  very  honour 
able  boy." 

"Evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners.  Thero 
must,  then,  he  something  wrong  in  his  associations." 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  said  Edward. 

"  Does  it  not  occur  to  you  in  what  direction  this  may 
lie?" 

Edward  looked  thoughtful. 

"  If  a  man  in  Mr.  Gardiner's  position  makes  light  of 
dishonesty,  is  there  not  danger  in  coming  within  the 
sphere  of  his  influence?  If  the  principal  in  a  large 
establishment  manifests  nc  just  regard  for  the  rights  of 
others,  what  is  to  be  expected  from  his  subordinates  ? 
Believe  me,  Edward,  there  is  great  danger  in  being  in 
the  service  of  such  a  man.  And  now  I  am  sure  you 
can  begin  to  see  how  grave  my  reasons  were  for  not  per 
mitting  you  to  accept  the  offer  he  seemed  so  kindly  to 
make." 

What  a  glow  of  pleasure  warmed  the  bosom  of  Mrs. 
Bradford,  as  her  son  expressed  strongly  his  abhorrence 
of  Mr.  Gardiner's  principles,  and  said  that  he  hoped 
ever  to  be  thankful  that  he  had  a  mother  who  was  wine 
enough  to  save  him  from  the  influences  of  such  a  man  ! 

Time  passed  on.  Mr.  Lee's  business  steadily  increased, 
though  not  rapidly.  He  was  active,  prompt,  and  honour 
able  in  dealing,  thus  securing  a  good  reputation  in  busi 
ness  circles.  At  the  end  of  a  year  he  was  abie  to 
increase  Edward's  salary  to  three  hundred  dollars,  and 
so  intelligent  had  the  lad  become  in  such  matters  of 
trade  as  were  permitted  to  him  on  his  o\vn  account,  that 


PASSING    THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  153 

he  added  two  hundred  dollars  to  this  income  during  the 
second  year  he  was  with  the  young  commission  mer 
chant.  From  this  time  the  widow  and  her  son,  though 
still  in  obscurity,  and  overlooked  by  friends  who  should 
have  stood  by  them  in  their  hours  of  need,  and  encour 
aged  them  as  they  passed  through  the  trials  of  adversity, 
had  not  only  all  things  needful  for  comfort,  but  enjoyed 
a  measure  of  happiness  that  is  meted  out  to  but  few. 

The  years  now  glided  by  with  a  fleeter  motion.  Mr. 
Lee's  business  steadily  increased.  His  strictly  honour 
able  dealings  had  become  widely  known ;  and  every 
season  he  received  new  and  more  valuable  consignments. 
For  Edward  he  had  from  the  beginning  felt  a  true  in 
terest.  Very  careful  was  he  to  instil  just  principles  into 
his  mind,  and  to  demonstrate  the  fallacy  of  the  bad 
maxim,  so  widely  prevalent,  that  no  man  can  conduct 
business  successfully  at  the  present  day  and  be  strictly 
honest.  Success,  he  always  maintained,  was  dependent 
on  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  business  in  which  a 
man  engaged,  united  with  untiring  induotry.  "  This," 
ho  would  say,  "  is  the  only  safe  road  in  which  to  walk. 
All  others  are  full  of  danger."  Every  year  he  con 
tinued  to  increase  the  salary  of  Edward  ;  for  every  year 
he  became  of  more  value  to  him. 

It  was  just  seven  years  from  the  day  on  which  Mrs. 
Bradford  declined  the  offer  of  the  rich  merchant  to  take 
her  son  into  his  service.  Circumstances  were  consider 
ably  altered.  Edward's  salary  was  enabling  her  to  live 
in  more  comfort,  and  some  of  her  old  friends  were  be 
ginning  to  approach  again.  Of  these  was  the  mother 
of  Henry  Long,  the  boy  who  had  taken  ll-o  pbce  at 


154  PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

Mr.  Gardiner's.  Henry  had  grown  up  a  gay,  dashing 
young  man ;  and  it  was  plain  to  all  close  observers  that 
in  his  contact  with  the  world  he  had  soiled  his  gar 
ments. 

Mrs.  Long,  rather  a  worldly-minded  woman  herself, 
did  not  seem  clearly  conscious  of  the  change  for  the 
worse  that  was  steadily  progressing.  Henry  had  a 
manly,  confident  way  about  him  that  gratified  her  vanity ; 
and  he  adroitly  deceived  her  in  many  things  that  a  truer- 
hearted  woman  would  have  known  by  an  unerring  in 
stinct,  Mrs.  Long  had  called  twice  upon  Mrs.  Brad 
ford ;  and  the  latter,  who  did  not  much  care  to  renew 
the  acquaintance,  felt  that  it  was  hardly  kind  not  to 
return  a  visit.  So,  one  fine  morning  she  rung  the  bell 
at  Mrs.  Long's  door.  The  servant  who  admitted  her 
had  a  frightened  look,  and  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  the 
door  wras  closed,  "  Oh,  ma'am,  go  up  quickly  to  Mrs. 
Long  !  I  don't  know  what  ails  her  !" 

"Is  she  sick?"  was  Mrs.  Bradford's  anxious  inquiry. 

"  Something's  the  matter.  She's  in  a  dreadful  way," 
answered  the  servant.  "  A  man  left  a  letter  for  her 
just  now,  and  as  soon  as  she  began  to  read  it  she  turned 
as  pale  as  death,  and  fell  right  down  on  the  floor.  I 
got  her  on  the  bed,  and  she's  lying  there  now,  moaning 
and  crying,  oh,  so  dreadfully !  Do  go  up,  and  see  her. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  !" 

Mrs.  Bradford  went  hastily  up  to  the  chamber  of  Mrs. 
Long.  As  she  opened  the  door,  the  groans  that  fell 
upon  her  ears  were  so  full  of  anguish  that  every  nerve 
thrilled  with  pain.  Crouching  down  upon  the  bed,  with 
her  face  pressed  into  and  hidden  on  a  pillow,  lay  the 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  155 

friend  she  had  called  to  visit,  shivering  as  if  in  a  strong 
ague-fit.  Going  quickly  to  the  bedside,  she  placed  her 
hand  upon  Mrs.  Long,  and  repeated  her  name.  The 
suffering  woman  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  touch,  nor  hear 
the  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Long  !  Mrs.  Long  !"  The  call  was  repeated  in 
a  low,  earnest,  penetrating  voice  ;  but  the  only  response 
was  a  moan  more  full  of  anguish. 

"  My  friend  !     Mrs.  Long  !" 

It  availed  not.  Her  ears  seemed  deaf — her  senses  all 
indrawn. 

"  What  great  trouble  has  come  upon  you  so  suddenly, 
my  friend?"  Very  tenderly  did  Mrs.  Bradford  speak, 
bending  her  face  low  to  the  ear  of  the  wretched  woman. 
There  was  a  half-smothered  murmur  of  words. 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Bradford,"  said  the  visitor. 

The  hands  of  Mrs.  Long  were  instantly  waved  back 
ward,  with  a  repelling  motion. 

"  Think  of  me  as  a  true  friend — as  an  earnest,  sym 
pathizing  friend." 

"Mother!  mother!  send  for  my  mother!"  was  the 
sufferer's  answer.  And  again  she  waved  her  hand  for 
Mrs.  Bradford  to  leave  her. 

Delicacy  forbade  further  intrusion  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Bradford.  Leaving  the  room,  she  made  known  the  wish 
of  Mrs.  Long  to  have  her  mother,  who  lived  near  by, 
sent  for,  and  went  back  to  her  own  home  deeply  pained 
at  the  scene  she  had  witnessed,  and  wondering  what  it 
could  mean. 

When  Edward  came  home  that  evening,  he  said  to  Tiis 
mother,  the  moment  he  entered, 


IM  PASSING    THROUGH   THE   FIRE. 

"  A  dreadful  thing  has  happened  here,  to-day  !" 

"What?"  was  the  quick  inquiry. 

"  Henry  Long  sailed  in  the  English  steamer  at  twelve 
o'clock,  after  having  robbed  his  employer  of  more  than 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

"  Oh,  no,  Edward  !     Impossible  !" 

"  It  is  too  true." 

"  But  he  could  not  abstract  so  much  money  at  one 
time?" 

"No  ;  but  the  frauds  on  the  house  have  been  going  on, 
as  is  alleged,  for  years.  This  morning  he  was  sent  to 
collect  some  large  drafts,  and  make  heavy  deposits,  the 
whole  amounting  to  over  forty  thousand  dollar?.  In 
stead  of  making  the  deposits,  he  bought  bills  of  excnange, 
and  left  for  Europe  in  the  steamer." 

"  Dreadful !    Dreadful !" 

"  In  consequence  of  this  large  abstraction  of  money, 
Mr.  Gai  diner  was  unable  to  meet  his  payments,  to-day, 
and  called  a  hurried  meeting  of  creditors.  We  had 
sold  him  some  goods,  and  Mr.  Lee  was  present  at  the 
meeting.  And,  what  do  you  think  he  says  ?  Why,  that 
it  is  the  strong  impression  of  nearly  all  his  creditors, 
after  hearing  his  story,  that  he  is  a  partner  in  the  guilt 
of  his  clerk." 

"  Oh,  Edward  !  Edward  !" 

A  shade  of  fear  went  darkly  over  the  mother's  face, 
as  she  remembered  how  near  she  had  been  to  yield 
ing  to  the  strong  pressure  that  was  on  her,  and  con 
senting  that  her  son  should  take  the  place  afterwards 
filled  by  Henry  Long.  "  Thanks  to  my  Heavenly  Fa- 


PASSING   THROUGH   THE   FIRE.  15? 

thor,  for  giving  me  the  strength  to  endure !"  was  her 
fervent  heart-ejaculation. 

"The  failure,  that  comes  in  conseqaence  of  Henry's 
crime,  will  be  a  very  bad  one.  False  entries  Avere  ex 
hibited  (too  quickly  discovered,  some  think,)  showing  the 
abstraction  of  over  sixty  thousand  dollars,  besides  the 
heavy  sum  taken  to-day.  If  the  creditors  get  thirty 
cents  in  the  dollar,  it  will  be  a  large  dividend  on  the 
effects  produced  by  Mr.  Gardiner." 

"  Then  he  may  be  a  worse  man  than  his  abscondint 
clerk." 

"  And  no  doubt  is,  mother.  He  has  not,  for  some 
time,  borne  a  good  reputation  among  honourable  busi 
ness  men.  I  have  heard  the  worst  epithets  applied  to 
him  by  merchants." 

"Oh,  Edward!"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  speaking  with 
BO  much  feeling  that  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  "  how 
thankful  I  am  that  you  did  not  enter  his  service  instead 
of  Henry  Long !" 

"Not  more  thankful  than  I  am,"  was  the  reply  of 
Edward.  "  For  years  I  have  seen  how  wisely  you  acted 
in  choosing  a  place  for  me  with  a  true,  good  man,  in 
stead  of  one  whose  only  recommendation  was  the  worldly 
advantage  he  had  to  offer.  How  far  I  might  have  been 
corrupted  in  his  service  I  know  not — but  I  have,  several 
times  to-day,  had  an  inward  shudder  as  I  thought  of  it.' 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  young  man  said,  with 
a  brightening  countenance, 

"  But  I  have  some  good  as  well  as  evil  tidings  for  your 
ear  Atr  ~oe  has  offered  me  an  interest  in  his  business 


158  FITS   OF   OBSTINACY. 

on  most  liberal  terms ;  and  I  have  accepted  the  propo 
sition." 

Mrs.  Bradford's  face  kindled  with  a  glow  of  delight. 
No  strong  expression  of  pleasure  leaped  from  her  tongue; 
she  only  clasped  the  hand  of  her  son,  and  looking  at 
him  with  an  expression  of  maternal  love  and  pride,  said, 

"  I  have  my  reward,  and  it  comes  quicker  and  more 
abundant  than  ever  imagination  realized.  My  dearest 
hope  for  you  in  life  has  been  that  you  might  be  a  true- 
hearted,  honourable,  honest  man.  You  are  all  this, 
Edward  ! — all  this.  And  now  there  is  added  the  worldly 
prosperity  that  I  was  willing  to  sacrifice  for  those  higher 
and  better  things.  There  is  no  happier  mother  in  the 
land  this  day.  My  cup  runs  over !" 


FITS  OF  OBSTINACY. 

MY  memory  recalls  one  morning  when,  superintend 
ing  the  instruction  of  a  very  intelligent  and  amiable 
child,  a  sister  about  ten  years  of  age,  I  was  surprised  at 
her  hesitation  in  commencing  to  read  some  verses  of 
rhyme  which  I  had  selected  for  the  purpose.  I  waited. 
"Come,  Annie!"  No  answer — a  pause.  "For  what 
are  you  waiting  ?"  No  reply.  "  Can't  you  begin  ?"  I 
read  a  verse.  "Now,  then;"  not  a  sound,  but  a  quiet, 
undisturbed  look,  without  the  appearance  of  any  feeling, 
but  that  of  a  resolute  determination  not  to  read.  If  1 
rightly  remember,  an  hour  must  have  passed  without  any 
progress  towards  the  desired  end ;  until  at  length  I  said 


FITS   OF   ODSriNACY.  159 

quietly  and  affectionately,  for  dearly  J  loved  the  little 
one  : — "  Annie,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  naughty  and 
obstinate;  you  must  read  it,  you  know,"  and  beginning 
to  read  I  went  through  the  several  verses.  "  Now,  then, 
like  a  good  child."  Annie  began,  in  a  somewhat  low 
voice,  gradually  raising  it  as  she  proceeded.  A  gentle 
word  of  commendation  cheered  her  on  to  the  end,  when 
I  patted  her  shoulder,  and  asked  her  if  she  could  not 
read  it  better  with  another  trial.  Annie  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  and  went  through  the  task  the  second 
time,  with  her  usual  accuracy  and  propriety.  The  mat 
ter  had  now  ended,  business  proceeded  in  its  ordinary 
manner,  and  no  allusion  was  ever  made  to  it  afterwards. 
I  never  could  account  for  this  fit  of  obstinacy.  It  stood 
alone  in  the  child's  career.  Annie  remembers  not  the 
hour  which  almost  frightened  her  youthful  instructress, 
I  have  not,  however,  been  so  successful  in  other  cases. 
Permit  me  to  say,  that  I  should  hesitate  to  use  expressions 
of  pity  and  sorrow  for  the  poor  little  dear  that  is  unable 
to  perform  the  very  easy  act.  Such  a  proceeding  would 
sting  some  proud,  self-important  children,  and  it  would 
wound  some  of  a  tenderly  affectionate  disposition.  It 
would  also  probably  elicit  the  thought  that  you  either 
wanted  discernment,  of  which  some  would  take  advan 
tage,  or  convey  an  idea  that  you  were  deliberately  saying 
what  you  know  to  be  an  untruth.  I  have  sat  during  one, 
two,  three,  or  more  hours,  quietly  waiting  for  the  work 
ing  of  a  simple  sum.  I  have  first  pointed  out  the  error, 
and  desired  that  it  should  be  rectified.  "If  you  do  not 
know  the  table  correctly,  get  your  book  and  ascertain, 
but  bring  me  the  sum  of  your  own  working ;"  and  for 


160  FITS   OF  OBSTINACY. 

this  I  have  waited^vith  as  much  temper  and  self-possession 
as  I  could  possibly  command  until  I  obtained  it.  I  do 
not  say  I  retained  my  seat  the  whole  time,  or  that  I  kept 
the  child  in  the  same  room.  On  the  contrary,  I  have, 
if  the  weather  were  suitable,  sent  her  into  the  garden, 
when  probably  the  change  in  her  will  might  be  effected 
in  part  by  the  change  of  air  and  scene.  But  while  a 
little  relief  was  afforded  from  the  close  application  of 
the  study,  and  the  slate  or  book  laid  aside  for  a  short 
time,  no  other  occupation  was  allowed  till  the  sum  or 
lesson  was  accomplished.  The  hour  of  repose  has  occa 
sionally  arrived,  and  brain  and  body  wearied,  I  have  sent 
the  moral  patient  to  bed  with  some  such  remark — "  to 
morrow,  the  first  thing  after  breakfast,  I  hope  we  shall  get 
over  this  difficulty.  It  can  be  done,  it  is  right  it  should 
be  done,  and  you  know  all  other  business  stands  still 
till  this  shall  have  been  accomplished."  Frequently  have 
I  alluded  to  some  passage  in  Holy  Writ,  as  a  warning, 
or  a  rule,  or  for  encouragement,  as  the  case  might  seem 
to  require.  Patience  is  the  grand  requisite,  combined 
with  quiet  and  considerate  kindness ;  but  some  children 
make  much  larger  demands  upon  these  qualities  in  the 
parent  or  educator  than  do  others.  Verily,  motheis 
work  for  Eternity,  and  onerous  is  the  task  committed  to 
them. 


THE  SENSITIVE  MOTHER. 

"WHEN  you  are  married,  Isabel,  and  have  children 
ol  your  own,  you  will  then  know  how  much  I  love  you." 

"  I  know  you  love  me,  dear  mother.  If  I  did  not 
acknowledge  and  understand  your  love,  what  should  I 
be  but  the  most  ungrateful  of  living  beings?" 

"  No  one  who  is  not  a  mother  herself  can  rightly  un 
derstand  a  mother's  love.  What  you  feel  for  me,  and 
what  you  fancy  I  feel  for  you,  comes  no  nearer  the 
reality,  Isabel,  than  the  chirp  of  the  sparrow  does  to  the 
song  of  the  nightingale.  The  fondest  child  does  not 
fully  return  the  love  of  the  coldest  mother." 

Tears  came  into  Isabel's  eyes ;  for  her  mother  spoke 
in  tender,  querulous  accents  of  uncomplaining  wrong, 
which  went  to  the  daughter's  heart.  Mrs,  Gray  was 
one  of  those  painfully  introspective  people  who  live  on 
themselves ;  who  think  no  one  loves  as  they  love,  no  one 
suffers  as  they  suffer ;  who  believe  they  give  their  heart's 
blood  to  receive  back  ice  and  snow,  and  who  pass  their 
lives  in  agonizing  those  they  would  die  to  benefit.  A 
more  lonely-hearted  woman  never,  in  her  own  opinion, 
existed,  although  her  husband  had,  she  thought,  a  cer 
tain  affection  from  habit  for  her;  but  any  real  heart- 
sympathy,  any  love  equal  to  her  fond  adoration  of  him, 
was  no  more  like  her  own  feelings  than  stars  are  equal 
to  the  noonday  sun. 

"Not  a  bad  simile,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Gray  once  answered, 

with  his  pleasant  smile,  "since  the  stars  are  suns  them- 
11 


162  THE   SENSITIVE    MOTHER. 

selves ;  and  if  we  could  change  our  point  of  view  w< 
might  find  them  even  bigger  and  brighter  than  our  own 
sun.  Who  knows  but,  after  all,  I,  who  am  such  a  clod 
compared  to  you — who  am,  you  say,  so  cold  and  un 
imaginative — that  my  star  is  not  a  bigger,  stronger  sue 
than  yours  ?" 

His  wife  gave  back  a  pale  smile  of  patient  suffering, 
and  said  sadly, 

"Ah,  Herbert!  if  you  knew  what  agony  I  endure 
\vhen  you  turn  my  affection  into  ridicule,  you  would 
surely  spare  me." 

The  frank,  joyous  husband  was,  as  he  expressed  it, 
"shut  up  for  the  evening."  And  then  Mrs.  Gray  wept 
gently,  and  called  herself  the  "family  kill-joy." 

With  her  daughter  it  was  the  same.  Isabel's  whole 
soul  and  life  were  devoted  to  her  mother.  She  was  the 
centre  round  which  that  young  existence  steadily  re 
volved.  The  daughter  had  not  a  thought  of  which  her 
mother  was  not  the  principal  object,  not  a  wish  of  which 
her  mother  was  not  the  actuating  spirit;  yet  Mrs.  Gray 
could  never  be  brought  to  believe  that  her  daughter's 
love  equalled  hers  by  countless  degrees.  Isabel  worked 
for  her,  played  to  her,  read  to  her,  walked  with  her, 
lived  for  her.  "Duty,  my  Isabel,  is  not  love,  and  I  am 
not  blind  enough  to  mistake  the  one  for  the  other." 
This  was  all  the  reward  Isabel  received.  When  she  fell 
in  love,  as  she  did  with  Charles  Houghton,  Mrs.  Gray's 
happiness  was  at  an  end.  Henceforth,  her  life  was  one 
long,  weak  wail  of  desolation.  She  was  nothing  now ; 
her  chill  had  cast  her  out  of  her  heart,  and  had  given 
the  dearest  place  to  anptjier ;  her  own  child,  her  Isabel, 


THE    SENSITIVE    MOTHER.  163 

her  treasure,  her  life,  her  soul.  Her  hour  had  passed: 
but  even  death  seemed  to  have  forgotten  1  er.  No  one 
loved  her  now.  She  was  a  down-trodden  worm;  a  poor, 
despised  old  woman ;  an  unloved,  childless  widow !  Ah  ! 
why  could  she  not  die?  What  sin  had  she  committed 
to  be  so  sorely  tried  ? 

Isabel  had  many  sorrowful  hours,  and  held  many 
long  debates  with  her  conscience,  asking  herself  more 
than  once  whether  she  ought  not  to  give  up  her  engage 
ment  with  Charles  Houghton  if  its  continuance  made 
her  mother  so  unhappy ;  also  whether  the  right  thing 
was  not  always  the  most  painful.  But  her  conscience 
did  not  make  out*  clear  case  of  filial  obligation  to  this 
extent,  for  there  was  a  duty  due  to  her  betrothed ;  and 
Isabel  felt  she  had  no  right  to  trifle  with  any  man  after 
having  taught  him  to  love  her.  She  owed  the  first  duty 
to  her  parents;  but  she  was  not  free  from  obligation  to 
her  lover ;  and  even  for  her  mother's  sake,  she  must  not 
quite  forget  this  obligation.  So  her  engagement  went 
on,  saddened  by  her  mother's  complaints. 

"My  love,"  said  her  father,  "Houghton  has  been 
speaking  to  me  of  your  marriage,  to-day.  Come  into 
my  study." 

Isabel,  pale  and  red  by  turns,  followed  her  father, 
dreading  both  his  acquiescence  or  refusal.  In  one  she 
heard  her  mother's  sobs,  in  the  other  her  lover's  despair. 

"  He  says,  Bell,  that  you  have  been  engaged  above  a 
year.  We  must  not  be  hard  on  him.  He  is  naturally 
desirous  to  have  the  affair  settled.  What  do  you  say  ? 
Will  a  month  from  this  seem  to  you  too  soon  for  your 
marriage  ?" 


1GI  THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER. 

"As  you  wish,  papa,"  said  Isabel,  breaking  up  a 
spray  of  honeysuckle. 

"No,  no,  as  you  wish,  my  dear  child.  Do  you  think 
you  would  be  happy  with  Houghton  ?  Have  you  known 
him  long  enough?" 

"Yes,  papa:  but — " 

"But  what,  love?" 

"  I  hesitate  to  leave  mamma,"  (her  head  sorrowfully 
bent  down.) 

"That  is  the  trial  of  life,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Gray, 
in  a  low  tone ;  his  face  full  of  that  quiet  sorrow  of  a 
firm  nature  which  represses  all  outward  expression, 
lest  it  add  a  double  burden  on  another.  "  Yet  it  is  one 
which,  by  the  nature  of  things,  must  be  borne.  We  can 
not  expect  to  keep  you  with  us  always ;  and,  although 
it  will  be  a  dark  day  to  us  when  you  are  gone,  yet  if  it 
is  for  your  happiness,  it  ought  to  be  so  for  ours.  Tell 
me,  Bell.  What  answer  do  you  wish  me  to  give  ?" 

"Will  he  not  wait  a  little  time  yet?"  and  the  girl 
crept  closer  to  her  father. 

"I  see  I  must  act  without  you,"  he  said,  smiling  and 
patting  her  cheek. 

"  Poor  Charles  !"  she  half  sighed. 

Her  father  smiled  still,  but  this  time  rather  sadly, 
ind  said, 

"  There,  go  back  to  your  mother,  child.  You  are  a 
baby  yet,  and  do  not  know  your  own  mind  better  than 
a  girl  who  has  to  choose  between  two  toys.  You  do 
not  know  which  to  leave  and  which  to  take.  I  must,  it 
seems,  choose  for  you." 

"  Oh,  papa  !" 


THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER.  165 

"Yes — you  need  not  look  so  distressed.  Trust  to 
me,  and  meanwhile — go;  your  mother  will  be  weary  for 
you." 

Although  this  little  scene  had  sunk  an  old  sorrow 
deeper  into  his  heart,  Mr.  Gray  was,  when  he  joined 
the  family,  calm,  almost  merry.  lie  challenged  Charles 
to  a  game  of  bowls  on  the  lawn,  and  ran  a  race  with 
Isabel  round  the  garden.  When  he  returned  to  hia 
wife,  she  told  him,  pettishly,  "that  it  was  a  marvel  tc 
her  how  he  could  be  so  unfeeling.  See  how  she  suffered 
from  this  terrible  marriage !  And  yet  she  had  no  right 
to  suffer  more  than  he;  but,"  sighed  the  lady,  "no  man 
ever  loved  as  much  as  woman  loves!" 

"And  don't  you  think  I  feel,  my  dear,  because  I  don't 
talk  ?  Can  you  not  understand  the  duty  of  silence  ? 
Complaints  may  at  times  be  mere  selfishness." 

He  spoke  very  mournfully.  She  shook  her  head. 
"People  who  can  control  themselves  so  entirely,"  she 
said,  "  have  seldom  much  to  control.  If  you  felt  as  I 
do  about  our  darling  child,  you  could  neither  keep  silence, 
nor  feign  happiness." 

Herbert  smiled,  but  made  no  answer;  and  Mrs.  Gray 
fairly  cried  over  Isabel's  hard  fate  in  having  such  an  in 
different  father. 

It  was  all  settled ;  Isabel  was  to  be  married  in  a  month's 
time.  Charles  mildly  complained  of  the  delay,  and 
thought  a  fortnight  ample  time  for  any  preparations ; 
but  Isabel  told  him  that  a  month  was  ridiculously  soon, 
and  she  wished  her  father  had  doubled  it ;  "  only  I  long 
very  much  to  see  Scotland."  They  were  to  go  to  the 
Highlands  to  spend  their  honeymoon. 


I6t5  THE   SENSITIVE    MOTHER. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  entirely  inconsolable.  The  poor  wo- 
man  was  not  well,  and  her  nerves  were  more  than  ordi 
narily  irritable.  She  gave  herself  a  good  deal  of  extra 
trouble,  too,  much  more  than  was  necessary,  and  took 
cold  by  standing  in  a  draught,  cutting  out  a  gown  for 
Isabel ;  which  the  maid  would  have  done  a  great  deal 
better,  and  would  not  have  complained  of  the  fatigue  of 
standing  so  long ;  which  Mrs.  Gray  did  all  day  long. 
Her  cold,  and  her  grief,  and  her  weariness  made  her  the 
most  painful  companion  ;  especially  to  a  devoted  daughter. 
She  wept  day  and  night,  and  coughed  in  the  intervals. 
She  did  not  eat,  and  answered  every  one,  who  pressed 
any  kind  of  food  on  her,  reproachfully,  as  if  they  had 
insulted  her.  She  slept  very  little,  and  denied  even  that 
little.  She  was  always  languid,  and  excess  of  crushed 
hopes  and  unrequited  affection  stimulated  her  into  a  fever. 

The  marriage-day  drew  nearer.  The  preparations, 
plentifully  interspersed  with  Mrs.  Gray's  sighs,  and 
damped  by  her  tears,  savoured  less  of  a  wedding  than 
of  a  funeral,  at  which  Mrs.  Gray  was  chief  mourner. 
The  father,  on  the  contrary — to  whom  Isabel  was  the 
only  bright  spot  in  life,  and  who  would  lose  all  in  losing 
her- — was,  the  gayest  of  the  party.  Isabel  herself,  divided 
between  her  lover  and  her  parents,  was  half  distracted 
with  her  conflicting  feelings,  and  often  wished  she  had 
never  seen  Charles  Houghton  at  all.  She  told  him  so 
once,  to  his  great  dismay,  after  a  scene  of  hysterics  and 
fainting-fits  performed  by  her  mother. 

It  wanted  only  a  week  now  to  the  marriage,  when  Her 
bert  Gray  came  down  to  breakfast  alone. 

"  Where  is  mamma?"  asked  Isabel. 


THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER.  107 

"  She  is  not  well,  my  dear,  and  will  have  breakfast 
in  bed." 

•'Poor  mamma! — how  long  her  cold  has  continued! 
What  can  be  done  for  her?" 

"  We  must  send  for  Doctor  Melville,  if  she  does  not 
get  better  soon.  I  am  quite  uneasy  about  her,  and  have 
been  so  for  some  time.  But  she  did  not  wish  a  physician 
to  be  sent  for." 

"  There  is  no  danger  ?"  asked  Isabel,  anxiously. 

Her  father  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  then  he 
said,  gravely,  "  She  was  never  strong,  and  I  find  her 
much  weakened  by  her  cough." 

By  this  time  breakfast  was  ready,  and  Isabel  prepared 
to  take  up  her  mother's  tray.  She  looked  at  her  father 
lovingly  when  she  passed  him,  and  turned  back  at  the 
door  and  smiled.  Then  she  softly  ascended  the  stairs. 
A  fearful  fit  of  coughing  seemed  to  have  been  suddenly 
arrested  as  she  entered  her  mother's  room.  She  placed 
the  tray  gently  on  the  dressing-table. 

There  was  a  faint  moan ;  a  moan  which  caused  Isabel 
an  agony  of  terror.  On  tearing  back  the  curtains,  she 
beheld  her  mother  lying  like  a  corpse — the  bed-clothes 
saturated  with  blood.  At  first  she  thought  of  murder, 
and  looked  wildly  around  the  room,  expecting  to  see  some 
one  again  clutch  at  that  sacred  life ;  but  Mrs.  Gray  said 
faintly,  "  I  have  only  broken  a  blood-vessel,  my  love  ; 
send  for  your  father."  A  new  nature  seemed  to  be  roused 
in  Isabel.  Agitated  and  frightened  as  she  was,  a  womanly 
self-possession  seemed  to  give  her  double  power,  both  of 
act  and  vision,  and  to  bury  for  ever  all  the  child  in  her 
heart.  She  forgot  herself.  She  thought  only  of  her 


168  THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER. 

mother,  and  what  would  be  good  for  her.  As  with  all 
strong  natures,  sympathy  took  at  once  the  form  of  help 
rather  than  of  pity.  She  rang  the  bell  and  called  the 
maid.  "  Go  down  and  tell  my  father  he  is  wanted  here," 
she  said,  quietly.  "  Mamma  is  very  ill.  Make  haste 
and  tell  my  father;  but  do  not  frighten  him." 

She  went  back  to  her  mother's  room,  quietly  and  stea 
dily,  without  a  sign  of  terror  or  bewilderment.  She 
•washed  the  blood  from  her  face,  gently ;  and,  without 
raising  her  head,  she  drew  off  the  crimsoned  cap.  Not 
to  shock  her  father  by  the  suddenness  of  all  the  ghastly 
evidences  of  danger,  perhaps  of  death,  she  threw  clean 
linen  over  the  bed,  and  placed  wet  towels  on  her  mother's 
breast.  Then,  as  her  father  entered,  she  drew  back  the 
curtains,  and  opened  the  window,  saying  softly,  "  Do 
not  speak  loud,  dear  papa.  She  has  broken  a  blood 
vessel." 

Herbert  Gray,  from  whom  his  daughter  had  inherited 
all  her  self-command,  saw  at  a  glance  that  everything  was 
already  done  which  could  be  done  without  professional 
advice ;  and,  giving  his  wife's  pale  cheek  a  gentle  kiss, 
hfi  left  the  room,  saying  simply,  "  God  bless  you  !"  and 
in  less  time  than  many  a  younger  and  more  active  man 
could  have  done  it,  was  at  Doctor  Melville's  door. 

All  this  self-possession  seemed  to  Mrs.  Gray  only  in 
tense  heartlessness  ;  and  she  lay  there  brooding  over  the 
indifference  of  her  husband  and  child  with  such  bitter 
ness,  that  at  last  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  hysterical  tears, 
and  threw  herself  into  such  agitation,  that  she  brought 
back  the  bleeding  from  the  ruptured  vessel  to  a  more 
alarming  extent  than  before.  She  would  have  been  more 


THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER.  169 

comforted,  ton  thousand  times,  if  they  had  both  fallen  to 
weeping  and  wailing ;  and  had  rendered  themselves  use 
less  by  indulgence  in  grief.  Love  with  her  meant  pity 
and  caresses. 

"  Oh,  child  !"  gasped  Mrs.  Gray,  "  how  little  you  love 
me !" 

Isabel  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  She  kissed  her 
mother's  hand;  and  with  difficulty  repressed  her  tears. 
For  it  was  a  terrible  accusation,  and  almost  destroyed 
her  calmness.  But,  fearing  that  any  exhibition  of  emo 
tion  would  excite  and  harm  her  mother,  she  pressed  back 
the  tears  into  her  inmost  heart,  and  only  said,  "  Dearest 
mother,  you  know  I  love  you  more  than  my  life  !" 

But  Mrs.  Gray  was  resolved  to  see  in  all  this  calmness, 
only  apathy.  She  loosened  her  daughter's  hand  pet 
tishly,  and  sobbed  afresh.  If  Isabel  had  wept  a  sea  of 
tears,  and  had  run  the  risk  of  killing  her  with  agitation, 
she  would  have  been  better  pleased  than  now.  Isabel 
thought  her  mind  was  rather  affected,  and  looked  anx 
iously  for  her  father. 

"  Don't  stay  with  me,  Isabel !  Go — go — you  want  to 
go,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Gray,  at  long,  long  intervals.  "  Go  to 
your  lover ;  he  is  the  first  consideration  now  !" 

"  Dear  mamma,  why  do  you  say  such  terrible  things  ?" 
paid  the  girl,  soothingly.  "  What  has  come  to  you?" 

"If  you  loved  me,"  sighed  Mrs.  Gray,  "you  would 
act  differently!" 

At  this  moment  Herbert  Gray  and  Doctor  Melville 
entered.  Having  examined  the  patient,  the  doctor  at 
once  said, 

"You  have  done  everything,  Miss  Isabel,  like  the 


r/0  THE   SENSITIVE    MOTHER. 

most  experienced  nurse.  You  deserve  great  praise 
Had  you  been  less  capable  or  less  self-possessed,  your 
mother  might  have  lost  her  life." 

lie  said  this  to  comfort  the  patient ;  but  she  turned 
awa  y  sadly,  and  murmured, 

"  My  child  does  not  love  me ;  she  has  done  her  duty ; 
buj.  duty  is  not  love  !" 

Mrs.  Gray  recovered  from  this  phase  of  her  illness 
o-Jy  to  fall  into  another  more  dangerous.  In  a  few 
weeks  she  was  pronounced  in  a  deep  decline,  which 
might  last  for  some  years,  or  be  ended  in  comparatively 
a  few  days — one  of  those  lingering  and  capricious  forms 
of  consumption,  that  keeps  every  one  in  a  kind  of  sus 
pense,  than  which  the  most  painful  certainty  would  be 
better. 

Of  course,  Isabel's  marriage  was  postponed  to  an 
indefinite  time,  and  Charles  Houghton  murmured  sadly, 
as  was  natural.  He  proved  to  Isabel  in  the  most  con 
clusive  logic  that  the  kindest  thing  she  could  do  for  her 
mother,  and  the  most  convincing  proof  of  love  she  could 
give  her,  was  to  marry  him  at  once,  and  then  she  would 
have  a  great  deal  more  time  to  attend  on  her ;  for  now 
his  visits  took  up  so  much  time,  and  all  that  would  ba 
saved.  His  logic  failed;  and  then  he  got  very  angry. 
So  that  between  her  mother  and  her  lover,  the  girl'i 
life  was  not  spent  among  roses.  She  went  on,  however, 
doing  her  duty  steadily ;  turning  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  to  the  left,  but  acting  as  she  felt  to  be  right. 

Her  mother's  querulous  complaints  used  always  to 
be  most  severe  after  some  terrible  scene  with  Charles, 


THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER.  171 

when  perhaps  he  had  been  beseeching  Isabel  not  to  kill 
him  with  delay. 

One  day  Charles  came  to  the  house  looking  very 
pale. 

"  You  are  ill !"  she  said,  anxiously. 

"  I  am,  Isabel,  very  ill." 

She  took  his  hand  and  caressed  it  in  both  her  own, 
looking  fondly  into  his  face.  He  left  his  hand  quite 
passive.  To  say  the  truth  frankly,  although  he  looked 
ill  he  looked  also  sulky. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"Everything,  Isabel,"  he  said,  abruptly — "marry 
me." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  her  lover's  gravity  chilled  her. 

"  You  can  do  all  for  me,  and  you  do  nothing." 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can.     But  if  a  greater  duty — " 

"A  greater  duty!"  Charles  interrupted.  "What 
greater  duty  can  you  have  than  to  the  man  you  lov?, 
and  whose  wife  you  have  promised  to  be?" 

"  But,  Charley,  if  I  were  your  wife,  I  should  then 
have,  indeed,  no  greater  duty  than  your  happiness.  As 
it  is,  I  have  more  sacred  ties — though  none  dearer,"  she 
added  in  her  gentlest  voice. 

"I  also  have  superior  duties,  Isabel." 

She  started  ;  but  after  a  moment's  pause,  she  said, 

"Certainly!"  The  young  man  watched  her  face 
intently. 

"And  how  will  you  feel,  Isabel,  when  I  place  thoso 
ties  far  above  your  love,  and  all  I  owe  you,  and  all  that 
we  have  vowed  together?" 

"Nothing    unkind    towards    you,    Charles,"    Isabel 


172  THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER. 

answered,  her  heart  failing  her  at  the  accusing  tone  of 
her  lover's  voice. 

"  But,  Isabel,  you  will  not  let  me  go  alone  !"  he  cried 
passionately.  "  You  cannot  have  the  heart  to  separate 
from  me — perhaps  for  ever  !" 

He  threw  his  arms  round  her. 

"  Go  alone — separate — what  do  you  mean  ?  Are  you 
going  anywhere  ?  or  are  you  only  trying  me  ?" 

"Trying  you,  my  dear  Isabel? — no,  I  am  too  sadly 
in  earnest !" 

"What  do  you  mean,  then?"  tears  filling  her  eyes. 

"  You  know  that  my  father's  affairs  have  been  rather 
embarrassed  lately?" 

"No,"  she  said,  speaking  very  rapidly. 

"Yes,  his  West  India  property  is  almost  a  wreck, 
lie  hass  just  lost  his  agent,  of  yellow  fever,  and  must 
send  out  some  one  immediately  to  manage  the  estate. 
It  is  all  he  has  to  live  on,  unless  he  has  saved  something 
— and  I  don't  think  he  has — when  he  can  no  longer 
practise  at  the  bar.  It  is  too  important  to  be  lost." 

"Well,  Charles?" 

"  I  must  go." 

There  .was  a  deep  pause.  Isabel's  slight  fingers 
closed  nervously  on  the  hand  in  hers ;  she  made  a 
movement  as  if  she  would  have  held  him  nearer  to  her. 

"  And  now,  what  will  you  do,  my  Isabel  ?  will  you 
suffer  me  to  go  alone ;  will  you  let  me  leave  you,  per 
haps  for  ever — certainly  for  years — without  the  chance 
of  meeting  you  again — and  with  many  chances  of 
death  ?  Will  you  virtually  break  your  engagement,  and 
give  me  back  my  heart,  worn  and  dead,  and  broken ;  or 


THE    SENSITIVE    MOTHER.  173 

will  you  brave  the  world  with  me,  become  my  wife,  and 
share  my  fortunes  ?"  , 

"  Charles,  how  can  I  leave  my  mother,  when  every 
d:iy  may  be  her  last ;  yet  when,  by  proper  care  and 
management,  she  may  live  years  longer  ?  What  can  I 
do?" 

"  Come  with  me.  Listen  to  the  voice  of  your  own 
heart,  and  become  my  wife." 

Isabel  sunk  back  in  deep  thought. 

"  No,"  she  whispered,  "  my  mother  first  of  all — before 
you." 

He  let  her  hand  fall  from  his. 

"  Choose,  then,"  he  said  coldly. 

She  clung  to  him ;  weeping  now  and  broken.  He 
pressed  her  to  his  heart.  He  believed  that  he  had  con 
quered. 

"  Choose,"  he  again  whispered.  "  If  you  have  not 
chosen  already,"  and  he  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"  Oh,  Charles  !  you  know  how  dearly  I  love  you." 

At  that  moment  her  mother's  cough  struck  her  ear. 
The  windows  were  open,  and  it  sounded  fearfully  distinct 
in  the  still  summer  air.  Isabel  shuddered,  and  hid  her 
face  on  her  lover's  shoulder,  resting  it  there  for  many 
minutes. 

"  I  have  chosen,"  she  then  said,  after  a  long,  long 
pause.  She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes. 
Although  pale  as  a  marble  statue,  but  quiet  and  resolved, 
she  never  looked  so  lovely,  never  so  loveworthy.  There 
was  something  about  her  very  beauty  that  awed  her 
lover,  and  something  in  the  very  holiness  of  her  nature 
that  humbled  and  subdued  him —  :>nly  for  a  moment ; 


174  THE    SENSITIVE    MOTHER. 

that  passed,  and  all  his  man's  eagerness  and  strength 
of  will  returned,  and  he  would  have  given  his  life  to 
destroy  the  very  virtues  he  reverenced. 

He  besought  her  by  every  tender  word  love  ever 
framed,  to  listen  to  him  and  to  follow  him.  He  painted 
scenes  of  such  desolation  and  of  such  abject  misery 
without  her,  that  Isabel  wept.  He  spoke  of  his  death  as 
certain,  and  asked  how  she  would  feel  when  she  heard 
of  his  dying  of  a  broken  heart  in  Jamaica,  and  how 
could  she  be  happy  again  when  she  had  that  on  her 
conscience  ?  And  although  she  besought  him  to  spare 
her,  and  once  was  nearly  fainting  in  his  arms  from 
excessive  emotion,  yet  he  would  not ;  heaping  up  her 
pile  of  woes  high  and  still  higher,  and  telling  her 
throughout  all,  "  that  she  did  not  love  him  now." 

After  a  fearful  scene  the  girl  tore  herself  away ;  rush 
ing  as  if  for  refuge  from  a  tempting  angel,  and  from 
herself,  into  her  mother's  room ;  busying  herself  about 
that  sick-bed  with  even  greater  care  and  tenderness 
than  usual. 

•  "You  have  been  a  long  time  away,  Isabel,"  Mrs. 
Gray  said,  petulantly. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  very  sorry,  dearest  mamma,  I  have  been 
detained."  Isabel  kissed  her  withered  hand. 

"Detained — you  don't  deny  it,  Isabel." 

"  I  am  very  sorry." 

Tears  trembled  in  her  mother's  eyes  as  she  murmured, 
"  Sorry  ! — Don't  stay  with  me,  child,  if  you  wish  to  go. 
I  am  accustomed  to  be  alone." 

"  I  entreat  you  not  to  think  that  I  wish  to  leave  you 
for  a  moment." 


THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER.  175 

"  Oh  yes,  you  do,  Isabel  !  I  dare  say  Charles  is  below 
stairs — he  seems  to  be  always  here  since  I  have  been  ill. 
You  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  him,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  have  said  all  I  had  to  say,"  answered  Isabel 
quietly. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  window  curtains, 
and.  as  she  spoke,  she  bent  her  head  lower  over  her  work. 
Her  mother  did  not  see  the  tears  which  poured  down  fast 
from  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  then  it  was  Charles  who  kept  you  !  I  can  easily 
understand,  my  love,  the  burden  I  must  be  to  you.  I 
am  sure  you  are  very  good  not  to  wish  me  dead — per 
haps  you  do  wish  me  dead,  often — I  am  in  your  way, 
Isabel.  If  I  had  died,  you  would  have  been  happily 
married  by  this  time ;  for  you  would  not  have  worn  mourn 
ing  very  long,  perhaps.  Why  have  I  been  left  so  long 
to  be  a  burden  to  my  family?" 

All  this,  broken  up  by  the  terrible  cough,  and  by  sobs 
and  tears,  Isabel  had  to  bear  and  to  soothe  away,  when 
she  herself  was  tortured  with  real  grief. 

Charles  departed  for  Jamaica.  The  thick  shadow  of 
absence  fell  between  their  two  hearts.  Henceforth  she 
must  live  on  duty  and  forget  love ;  now  almost  hopeless, 
A  stern  decree,  this,  for  a  girl  of  nineteen. 

For  the  youth  himself,  the  excitement  of  the  voyage, 
the  novelty  of  his  strange  mode  of  life,  and  the  dis 
tractions  of  business,  were  all  so  many  healing  elements 
which  soon  restored  peace  to  his  wounded  heart.  Not 
that  he  was  disloyal  or  forgetful  of  his  love,  but  he  was 
annoyed  and  angry.  He  thought  that  Isabel  might  have 
easily  left  her  mother  to  go  with  him,  and  that  she  was 


176  THE   SENSITIVE    MOTHER. 

very  wrong  not  to  have  done  so.  Between  the  excite 
ment  of  new  scenes  and  new  amusements,  and  the  ex 
citement  of  anger  and  disappointment,  Charles  Hough- 
ton  recovered  his  serenity,  and  flourished  mightily  on 
Jamaica  hospitality. 

By  the  end  of  that  year  the  invalid  grew  daily  weaker 
and  weaker.  She  could  not  leave  her  bed  now ;  and 
then  she  could  not  sit  up  even ;  and  soon  she  lay  without 
motion  or  colour — and  then,  on  the  first  day  of  spring  she 
died.  She  died  on  the  very  same  day  that  Charles  Hough- 
ton  entered  the  house  of  the  rich  French  planter,  Gerard, 
and  was  presented  to  his  heiress,  Pauline. 

Pauline  Gerard  !  a  small,  dark,  gleaming  gem,  a  flit 
ting  humming-bird — a  floating  flower — a  fire-fly  through 
the  night — a  rainbow  through  the  storm — all  that  exists 
in  nature  most  aerial,  bright  and  beautiful ;  these  Charles 
compared  her  to,  and  a  great  deal  more;  that  is — when 
they  first  met.  Charles,  with  his  great  Saxon*  heart, 
fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight.  It  was  not  love  such 
as  he  had  felt  for  Isabel.  It  struck  him  like  a  swift  dis 
ease.  It  was  not  the  quiet,  settled,  brother-like  affec 
tion  which  had  left  him  nothing  to  regret  and  little  to 
desire ;  but  it  was  a  wild,  fierce  fever,  that  preyed  on 
his  heart  and  consumed  his  life.  He  would  fly  ;  he  would 
escape;  he  was  engaged  to  Isabel.  It  must  be  that  she 
did  not  love  him,  else  she  never  could  have  suffered  him 
to  leave  her ;  yet  he  was  bound  to  her.  Honour  was  not 
to  be  lightly  sacrificed.  Would  Pauline,  with  her  large 
passionate  eyes,  have  given  up  her  lover  so  coldly  ?  Still 
he  was  engaged,  and  it  was  a  sin  and  a  crime  to  think 
of  another.  He  would  fly  from  the  danger  while  he 


THE    SENSITIVE    MOTHER.  177 

could ;  he  would  fight  the  battle  while  he  had  strength. 
Fie  was  resolved,  adamant.  One  more  interview  with 
Pauline — but  Pauline  presented  herself  accidentally  in 
the  midst  of  these  indomitable  projects.  One  glance 
from  her  deep  sapphire  eyes  put  all  his  resolutions  to 
flight — duty,  like  a  pale  ghost,  passing  slowly  by  in  the 
shade. 

When  fully  awake  to  the  truth  of  his  position,  Hough- 
ton  wrote  to  Isabel.  He  wrote  to  her  like  a  madman, 
imploring  her  to  come  out  to  him  immediately;  to  lay 
aside  all  foolish  scruples,  to  think  of  him  only  as  her 
husband,  to  trust  to  him  implicitly,  and  to  save  him  from 
destruction.  lie  wrote  to  her  with  a  fierce  emphasis 
of  despair  and  entreaty  that  burned  like  fire  in  his  words. 

This  letter  found  Isabel  enfeebled  by  long  attendance 
on  her  mother ;  unable  to  make  much  exertion  of  mind 
or  body,  and  requiring  entire  repose.  That  she  should 
be  restored  to  her  lover ;  that  she  should  be  happy  as  his 
wife,  was,  for  a  moment,  like  a  new  spring-tide  in  her  • 
life  to  dream.  Then  she  remembered  her  father,  her 
dear,  patient,  noble,  self-denying  father,  to  whom  she 
was  now  everything  in  life ;  and  she  wrote  and  told 
Charles  that  she  could  not  go  out  to  him ;  but  reminded 
him  that  his  term  of  absence  had  nearly  expired ;  and 
that,  when  he  returned,  they  should  be  married,  never 
to  be  parted  again.  Why  should  they  not  be  married 
in  England  rather  than  in  Jamaica? 

"Thank  God  I  am  free  !"IIoughton  exclaimed,  when  ho 

had  read  the  letter.     It  dropped  from  his  nerveless  hand. 

He    ordered   his    horse,  and   rode  through  the  burning 

tropical  sun  to  Pauline  Gerard.     Not  two  hours  after  the 

12 


178  THE   SENSITIVE   MOTHER. 

receipt  of  Isabel's  letter  he  was  the  accepted  lover  of 
the  young  French  heiress. 

Poor  Isabel !  at  that  instant  she  was  praying  for  him 
in  her  own  chamber. 

News  came  to  England  in  due  time.  Charles  himself 
wrote  to  Isabel,  gently  and  kindly  enough ;  but  unmis- 
takeably.  It  stood  in  plain,  distinct  words,  "  I  am  to 
be  married  to  Pauline  Gerard;"  and  no  sophistry  could 
soften  the  announcement.  He  tried  to  soothe  her  wounded 
feelings  by  dealing  delicately  with  her  pride.  He  had 
been,  he  urged,  only  secondary  in  her  heart.  She  placed 
others  before  him,  and  would  make  no  sacrifice  for  him. 
What  had  happened  was  her  own  doing  entirely  ;  she  had 
not  cared  to  retain  him,  and  he  had  only  acted  as  she 
would  have  him  act,  he  was  sure  of  that,  in  releasing 
her.  And  then  he  was  "  hers  very  affectionately,"  and 
"  would  be  always  her  friend." 

Isabel  did  not  die.  She  did  not  even  marry  another 
man  out  of  spite,  as  many  women  have  done.  She  looked 
ill;  but  was  always  cheerful  when  she  spoke,  and  de 
clared  that  she  was  quite  well.  She  was  more  than  ever 
tender  and  attentive  to  her  father ;  and  she  went  out 
much  less  amongst  even  the  quiet  society  of  the-ir  quiet 
home ;  but  she  read  a  great  deal,  and  without  effort  or 
pretension  she  lived  over  her  sweet  poeu:  of  patience 
and  duty  and  womanly  love. 


HIE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

NESTLING  in  his  mother's  breast 

Lay  a  sleeping  child, 
Like  a  wood-dove  in  its  nest, 

Pure  and  undefined : 
Quiet  tears  the  mother  wept, 
While  her  infant  sweetly  slept. 

Softly  prayed  the  mother  then. 

From  an  o'er-full  heart, 
That — when  in  the  ways  of  m«jn 

He  must  bear  a  part, — 
God  would  teach  him  to  endure, 
God  would  make  him  strong  and  pun. 

"  Father !  if  it  is  Thy  will 

That  his  path  be  rough, 
Guide  him  with  Thy  spirit  still — • 

That  shall  be  enough : 
In  life's  darkness — be  his  sun, 
Oh  !  thou  true  and  Holy  One. 

Not  the  victor's  wreath  or  crown 

Ask  I  for  my  child, 
But  Thy  smile  when  strife  is  don?, 

Beaming  pure  and  mild  ; 
And  that  smile  shall  brighter  seem, 
lor  his  troubled  earthly  dream. 

"  Not  for  talents,  power,  or  fame 

Shall  my  prayer  be, 
But  that  through  the  cross  or  shame, 

He  may  trust  in  Thee; 
Leaning  gently  on  Thy  arm, 
Through  the  sunshine,  through  the  storm. 


180  MRS.  H ALE'S  TWO  VISITS. 

"  Well  I  know  my  faith  is  dim, 
And  my  heart  is  weak  ; 

And  in  earnest  prayer  for  him 
Oft  I  dare  to  speak 

Earth-born  hopes  of  peace  and  rest. 

Deeming  that  my  will  is  best. 

"  If  such  wishes  ever  press 
To  my  faltering  tongue, 

If  from  me  in  feebleness 
Such  a  prayer  be  wrung  ; 

Father — check  my  wayward  will, 

Whisper  softly — '  Peace — be  still'— 

"  Ask  I  not  that  every  sting 
From  his  path  depart,  , 

But  through  all  the  suffering 
Keep  him  '  pure  in  heart ;' 

Then  though  troubled  and  distressed, 

He  shall  know  Thy  will  is  best." 

Brightly  o'er  the  mother's  cheek 

Burned  a  living  joy, 
While  she  asked,  with  soul  so  meek, 

Blessings  for  her  boy  ; 
And  her  prayer  sweet  peace  did  bring, 
Even  in  the  offering. 


MRS.  HALE'S  TWO  VISITS. 

44  GET  up  from  that  cliair,  I  want  to  sit  in  it !"  cried 
Willie  Gordon,  a  little  boy  six  years  old;  at  the  same 
time  pulling  at  the  dress  of  the  lady  who  was  seated  in 
the  chair  he  wished  to  have. 


MRS.  BALE'S  TWO  VISITS.  181 

"  Willie,  my  love,  you  must  not  speak  in  that  way. 
Go  and  play  with  your  little  horse  and  carriage,  there's 
a  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  in  a  coaxing  tone.  But 
Willie  was  not  to  be  coaxed. 

"  I  don't  want  to  play,"  he  replied;  "  I  want  to  sit 
in  the  rocking-chair — I  will  have  it,  I  will !'  and  with 
renewed  vigour  he  pulled  at  the  lady's  dress. 

"  Indeed,  Willie,  I  feel  quite  ashamed  of  you,"  said 
his  mother,  in  a  languid  tone. 

Mrs.  Hale,  perceiving  that  Willie's  conduct  would 
receive  no  check  from  his  mother,  and  that  her  barege 
dress  would  be  the  sufferer,  if  the  child's  attack  on  it 
was  prolonged,  rose  from  the  rocking-chair,  and  took 
another  seat. 

Willie  climbed  into  the  chair  with  a  cry  of  exultation, 
and  commenced  rocking  to  and  fro,  violently. 

Mrs.  Gordon  coloured  slightly,  and  said  to  her  visiter, 

"  I  fear,  Mrs.  Hale,  you  will  think  my  Willie  a  bad 
boy.  I  own  I  spoil  him  a  little.  But  he  is  my  onlj 
child :  he  knows  he  is  mother's  pet.  and  he  takes  advan 
tage  of  it  sometimes." 

"  Not  a  little  spoiled ;  not  a  little"  thought  Mrs. 
Hale ;  but  she  was  too  sensible  a  woman  to  utter,  in  the 
child's  presence,  anything  that  might  imply  blame  of 
his  mother.  She  merely  bowed  in  reply  to  Mrs.  Gor 
don's  half-apology,  and  began  talking  on  other  subjects. 

Presently  a  smart  blow  on  her  arm  caused  Mrs.  Hale 
to  look  round.  Willie  had  slipped  off  the  rocking-chair, 
and  was  standing  behind  her ;  and  as  she  turned  sud 
denly,  she  received  another  blow  from  the  whip,  in  her 
face. 


182  MRS.  KALE'S  TWO  VISITS. 

"  Willie,  Willie  !"  cried  his  mother,  now  seriously  con* 
cerned ;  "  give  me  that  whip,  there's  a  darling.  And 
go,  ask  Jane  to  give  you  a  nice  piece  of  pound-cake." 

"I  don't  care  rbr  pound-cake;  I  want  her"  (pointing 
to  Mrs.  Hale)  "  to  be  my  horse." 

"  Mother  will  be  your  horse,  by-and-bye.  Now  go  tc 
Jane.  She  has  something  nice  for  you,  I  know,"  rejoin 
ed  the  mother. 

"  I  won't  go.  I  want  to  stay  here,"  stoutly  responded 
the  son. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Hale  had  risen  from  her  seat,  for 
she  foresaw  who  would  be  the  victor  in  this  contest.  She 
had  intended  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  her  friend, 
but  now  she  heartily  wished  to  escape  from  the  house 
where  this  little  tyrant  ruled.  So,  when  Mrs.  Gordon 
pressed  her  to  resume  her  seat,  and  lay  off  her  bonnet, 
she  declined,  saying,  she  had  other  calls  to  make. 

Mrs.  Gordon  accompanied  her  friend  to  the  door,  say 
ing,  "  I  am  very  sorry  Willie  behaved  so  badly.  I  am 
afraid  his  conduct  is  driving  you  away.  But  he  is  my 
only  child.  I  cannot  bear  to  thwart  him,  or  to  Dunish 
him.  If  I  had  half-a-dozen  children  it  would  be  differ 
ent.  I  should  then  form  a  system  of  government,  and 
oblige  the  children  to  conform  to  it,  and  obey  me.  But 
where  there  is  only  one  child,  a  mother  cannot  be  always 
scolding ;  for  my  part,  I  can  only  love  and  pet  my  little 
Willie." 

The  two  ladies  shook  hands,  and  parted.  Mrs.  Hale 
walked  musingly  down  the  street.  "Mrs.  Gordon  gave 
me  a  strange  excuse  for  spoiling  her  child.  Easier  to 
govern  six  than  one  !  But  she  is  not  the  first  mother  I 


MRS.  BALE'S  TWO  VISITS.  183 

Lave  heard  say  so.  Can  there  be  any  truth  m  it  ?  I 
owe  Mrs.  Johnson  a  call ;  that  will  give  me  an  oppor 
tunity  of  comparing.  Her  system  of  government  may 
be  complete,  for  she  has  seven  or  eight  children." 

A  walk  of  a  few  minutes  brought  her  to  Mrs.  John 
son's  door.  She  rang,  and  after  waiting  a  considerable 
time,  pulled  the  bell-handle  again,  when  an  untidy-look 
ing  maid-servant  appeared,  and  in  answer  to  her  inquiry, 
replied  that  Mrs.  Johnson  was  at  home. 

"  I'm  afeard  I  kept  you  waiting,"  said  the  girl,  as  she 
opened  the  shutters.  "  Master  Tom,  for  mischeeve,  tied 
up  the  tongue  of  the  bell.  By  good  chance  I  seed  it 
trembling  like,  or  yees  might  have  been  kept  waiting  till 
the  gloaming,  and  I  none  the  wiser." 

"  There  must  be  some  flaw  in  the  system  of  govern 
ment,"  thought  Mrs.  Hale.  A  glance  round  the  parlour 
confirmed  her  in  this  opinion.  It  was  in  a  state  of  un 
utterable  disorder.  Not  a  single  chair  was  in  its  place. 
Three  or  four  were  tied  together  with  twine  to  form 
"  coach  and  horses."  A  quantity  of  loose  music  wsw 
scattered  over  the  floor,  and  the  sofa  was  occupied  by 
two  dolls,  and  the  various  articles  of  their  wardrobe. 

Mrs.  Johnson  entered,  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  But 
the  cordiality  of  her  greeting  was  sadly  marred  by  the 
look  of  vexation  which  overspread  her  features  as  she 
glanced  round  the  room. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hale. 
The  children  have  been  in  here  again,  I  declare !  It  is 
an  age  since  I  have  seen  you.  Not  half  an  hour  ago  I 
set  everything  to  rights.  Do  take  a  seat  on  the  sofa," 
sweeping  with  her  hand  the  dolls  and  their  dresses  into 


184  MRS.  BALE'S  TWO  VISITS. 

one  corner.  Then,  throwing  herself  into  the  rocking- 
chair,  she  exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Hale,  you,  who  have  no  children  of  your 
own,  can't  imagine  all  a  mother  has  to  put  up  with.  I 
suppose  it  looks  dreadful  to  you  to  see  the  parlour  in 
this  state.  It  is  bad  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  what  can 
be  expected  when  there  are  seven  children  in  the  house?" 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  burst  open,  and  two 
little  girls  rushed  in.  They  paused  a  moment  at  sight 
of  the  visiter.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  Running 
up  to  the  sofa,  they  commenced  exclaiming,  and  crying, 
when  they  found  that  their  dolls  had  been  pushed  into 
a  corner. 

"  Who  crushed  my  doll's  bonnet?"  cried  Julia. 

"Look,  how  this  white  frock  is  tumbled!"  exclaimed 
Mary. 

"  I  wish  folks  would  leave  my  things  alone  !"  rejoined 
Julia,  stamping  her  foot  passionately. 

"  Don't  you  see  the  lady,  children?"  exclaimed  their 
mother.  "I  am  really  quite  ashamed  of  you.  Take 
your  dolls  away,  and  go  up  stairs." 

The  little  girls  were  silent,  but  they  began  arranging 
their  dolls'  clothes,  wholly  unmindful  of  their  mother's 
command. 

Mrs.  Johnson,  however,  did  not  appear  to  notice  their 
disobedience.  She  did  not  repeat  her  own  injunction, 
but  continued  conversing  with  Mrs.  Hale  on  the  troubles 
of  housekeeping,  the  idleness  of  her  servants,  &c.  Pre 
sently  a  dispute  arose  between  the  little  girls.  Sharp 
words  were  spoken,  and  Julia  struck  Mary  in  the  face ; 


MRS.  BALE'S  TWO  VISITS.  185 

she  ran  to  her  mother,  who  again  interposed  her  weak 
and  disregarded  authority. 

"  Julia,  you  are  a  very  naughty  girl — go  up  stairs, 
this  instant."  Then,  taking  Mary  on  her  lap,  she  said, 
"  There,  my  darling,  let  mother  kiss  it,  and  it  will  soon 
be  well." 

Mary  turned  away,  pettishly,  from  her  mother's  prof 
fered  kiss,  and  Julia,  having  retreated  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  began  building  a  doll's  house  with  books, 
which  she  took  off  the  centre-table. 

Mrs.  Johnson  sighed,  and  exclaimed, 

"  I  have  no  peace  or  comfort  with  these  children  ! 
My  health  is  so  indifferent  that  I  cannot  exert  myself, 
and  they  take  advantage  of  my  indulgence  towards 
them." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen 
called  out, 

"  Here,  girls,  come  quick  ;  there  are  soldiers  passing." 

The  little  girls  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Hale 
took  advantage  of  their  absence  to  say, 

"  If  you  were  rather  more  firm,  my  dear  friend,  in 
requiring  obedience  now,  I  think  you  would  have  less 
trouble  in  the  end." 

"Ah,  it  is  too  late,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  with  a 
sigh.  "  If  I  had  begun  so  with  Emma,  my  eldest  child, 
it  would  have  been  well  for  me.  And  not  only  for  me, 
but  for  her,  and  for  all  tire  rest  of  them.  An  old  aunt 
gave  me  good  advice,  then,  but  I  foolishly  disregarded 
it.  I  well  remember  her  words  :  '  Now,  Mary,  you  have 
but  one  child,  and  can  devote  all  your  attention  to  her. 
Train  her  from  the  beginning  in  habits  of  obedience. 


186  MRS.  KALE'S  TWO  VISITS. 

Such  training  will  be  a  priceless  blessing  to  her  through 
out  the  whole  of  her  life.  And  if  God  grants  you 
more  children,  you  will  find  that  they  will  be  likely  to 
imitate  the  example  of  their  eldest  sister,  whether  it  be 
for  good  or  for  evil.  Take  my  advice,  therefore,  and 
train  your  first-born  in  habits  of  obedienct.'  She  spoke 
truly  and  wisely,  but  I  was  a  young  and  foolish  mother. 
The  words  '  obedience'  and  '  authority'  sounded  harshly 
to  me.  I  indulged  Emma  exceedingly,  and  gave  way 
to  her  continually.  And,  oh,  how  many  a  heart-ache 
does  she  cost  me  !" 

Mrs.  Johnson  paused,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief.  Mrs.  Hale  took  her  hand,  and  began, 
soothingly, 

"  Dearest  friend — " 

"  Do  not  attempt  to  console  me,  my  friend,  or  to  pal 
liate  my  fault.  It  has  been  great,  and  bitter  is  its  pun 
ishment.  As  one  after  another  were  added  to  our  little 
flock,  the  duties  of  family  government  became  more  and 
more  difficult.  My  health  is  feeble,  and  my  time  much 
occupied  ;  my  husband  is  away  all  day.  The  only  way 
to  keep  the  children  from  being  entirely  ruined,  will  be 
to  send  them  all  to  boarding-school.  The  two  eldest 
boys  are  there  already.  James  is  to  go  next  month. 
And  I  am  endeavouring  to  make  up  my  mind  to  send 
away  Emma,  Mary,  and  Julia.  It  is  hard  thus  to  part 
from  my  children,  but  I  know  I  have  brought  this  trial 
on  myself  by  my  foolish,  false  indulgence.  My  little 
Lizzie  is  only  three  years  old — I  will  try  to  be  firm  with 
her,  and  train  her  up  in  habits  of  obedience.  God  grant 


MANAGEMENT   OF   CHILDREN.  137 

ehe  may  be  a  comfort  to  me,  and  that  I  may  have  grace 
to  carry  out  my  resolution  !" 

In  this  earnest  desire  Mrs.  Hale  cordially  joined,  and 
warmly  pressing  her  friend's  hand,  she  took  her  leave, 
pondering  on  her  two  visits. 


MANAGEMENT  OF  CHILDREN. 

CHILDREN  are  naturally  selfish  as  regards  their 
physical  and  animal  wants ;  but  they  are  not  naturally 
ungenerous  ;  this  may  seem  a  paradox — yet  it  is  true  ; 
their  feelings  are  easily  touched  ;  their  affection  for  each 
other  is  fond  and  sincere  ;  they  will  clutch  at  an  apple  or 
a  cake,  to  have  the  first  mouthful,  but  they  will  readily 
offer  the  second  to  their  playfellow,  and  sympathize  in 
the  pleasure  with  which  he  eats  it.  Daily  experience 
proves  this ;  place  a  child  in  the  corner  by  way  of 
punishment ;  for  the  first  five  minutes  his  little  brothers 
and  sisters  look  on  with  silent  awe :  then  they  watch 
till  the  teacher's  brow  is  again  smooth — then  the  eldest 
assumes  courage,  and  exclaims  "  Mamma,  Ellen  is  good 
now,"  and  finally  all  join  in  chorus,  and  entreat  that 
she  may  come  out,  for  they  are  "  sure  she  will  be  good,'5 
naturally  adopting  the  old  Saxon  principle  of  being 
sponsors  for  each  other's  behaviour.  The  celebrated 
apothegm,  that  man  rejoices  in  the  misfortunes  of  his 
neighbours,  does  not  hold  good  in  children. 

But  this  is  a  principle  diametrically  opposed  to  tale- 


138  MANAGEMENT   OF   CHILDREN. 

bearing,  and  it  is  because  we  believe  it  to  be  almost  aa 
instinctive  principle  in  children,  that  we  consider  it  easy 
to  impress  on  their  minds  the  criminality  of  that  ill 
nature,  on  which  tale-bearing  is  founded.  In  tale 
bearing  there  is  mingled  malice,  dishonesty,  and  mean 
ness.  It  springs  from  all  the  baser  elements  of  human 
nature.  We  are  fully  sensible  of  this  in  adults  :  although 
we  are  too  apt  to  listen  with  the  attention  of  curiosity 
to  the  scandal  which  Mrs.  Jones  or  Mr.  Smith  may  tell 
us  of  their  neighbours,  we  are  conscious  that  in  our 
hearts  we  not  only  discredit,  but  despise  them,  as  the 
propagators  of  it.  Neither  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  nor 
the  beauty  of  Venus,  nor  the  fascination  of  Circe,  would 
obtain  a  husband  for  the  womaji  who  habitually  indulged 
in  uncharitable  tales  of  her  friends. 

A  similar  antipathy  prevails  among  children  towards 
any  of  their  playmates  given  to  this  unhappy  vice ;  and 
while  we  admit  that  it  requires  much  tact  and  delicacy 
to  correct  the  failings  of  one  child,  by  reference  to  those 
of  another,  we  think  that  in  this  case,  there  is  scarcely 
any  more  effective  lesson  than  that  which  may  be  drawn 
from  the  acknowledged  odium  which  such  offenders 
bring  on  themselves.  But  where  instances  are  not  ai 
hand  to  furnish  such  a  lesson,  then  the  proper  check  ia 
limited  to  a  decided  repulse,  given  in  a  tone  of  indigna 
tion.  Refuse  to  hear  another  word,  after  enough  has 
been  said  to  show  the  nature  of  the  intended  communi 
cation  ;  repel  the  tale-bearer  with  decision  and  disgust. 
To  this  must  be  added  explanation  of  the  dishonour 
and  ill-nature  of  all  uncalled-for  scouting  into  the  say 
ings  and  doings  of  those  around  us.  "  How  would  you 


MANAGEMENT    OF   CHILDREN.  189 

like  it.  if  Caroline  came  to  me  to  tell  me  of  all  the 
foolish  things  you  had  been  saying  ?  What  would  you 
think  of  your  brother,  if  he  had  been  watching  you  when 
you  were  cutting  up  your  pinafore,  and  asked  me  to 
whip  you  for  it  ?  or  when  you  snatched  away  your 
sister's  doll,  and  put  it  on  the  fire  ?" 

The  disposition  to  speak  kindly,  to  think  favourably, 
to  act  charitably,  in  respect  of  others,  cannot  be  too 
much  or  too  early  cultivated  in  human  nature,  ere  it 
becomes  necessary  to  teach  distinctions  between  the 
reality  and  the  semblance  of  virtue  in  those  around  us. 

Those  who  have  lived  much  in  the  world,  never  fail 
to  observe  the  kind  feeling  that  obtains  towards  men 
who  habitually  se«k  out  the  good  points  in  a  neighbour's 
character  or  conduct.  No  doubt  that,  in  many  instances, 
this  lenient  bearing  proceeds  from  timidity ;  in  many 
others,  from  a  servile  and  mean  anxiety  to  court  the 
reciprocity  of  good  nature — "  screen  my  offences,  and  I 
will  publish  your  merits" — in  some  cases  from  a  natural 
and  cherished  dullness  of  perception  to  the  nature  of 
vicious  habits — a  sort  of  "  well,  after  all,  I  see  no  great 
harm  in  that."  This  blinking  of  vice,  is  not  what  we 
mean  by  charity ;  but  we  intend  by  the  term,  a  dis 
position  to  place  a  favourable  construction  upon  acts 
admitting  either  of  censure  or  applause — an  inclination 
to  attribute  right  motives,  where  such  as  are  wrong  are 
not  unequivocally  betrayed — a  willingness  to  think  the 
best,  where  circumstances  are  ambiguous — and  even 
where  Christian  principle  is  obliged  to  condemn,  to  find 
scope  for  Christian  charity,  in  favourable  contrast  of 
that  which  is  occasionally  wrong  with  that  which  is 


190  MANAGEMENT  OF   CHILDREN. 

habitually  right.  This  is  a  liberality  of  mind  strictly  in 
accordance  with  the  apostolic  definition  of  charity,  that 
"  thinketh  no  evil,"  and  not  less  so  with  a  manly  and 
generous  disposition,  that  will  nevertheless  "  call  a 
spade,  a  spade,"  when  duty  makes  it  proper  to  speak 
out.  Such  is  the  disposition  we  would  foster  in  earliest 
infancy. 

Yet  even  here,  again,  discrimination  is  required  ;  the 
child  must  be  taught  to  overlook  a  brother's  or  a  sister's 
failings,  but  not  to  connive  at  their  faults.  And  how 
is  this  to  be  done,  where  the  line  of  demarcation  between 
faults  and  failings  is,  in  reference  to  their  tender  age, 
necessarily  fine  ?  It  is  not  difficult :  very  little  attention 
will  suffice  to  show  whether  a  complaint  of  another 
springs  from  ill-natured  officiousness,  or  from  conscien 
tious  duty  to  the  parent.  In  the  one  case  it  is  tendered 
secretly,  stealthily — with  an  "  only  think,  mamma,  what 
Louisa  has  been  doing !"  in  the  other  case  it  is  made 
openly — gravely — bringing  up  the  culprit  in  hand  to 
listen  to  the  accusation — u  Mamma,  Louisa  has  told  a 
story;"  the  tone  and  the  features  alike  betray  sorrow 
and  concern ;  and  the  reporter  of  the  offence  shows  that 
she  takes  no  pleasure  in  making  it  known,  though  she 
dare  not  conceal  it.  Here  attention  must  be  given,  and 
tho.  accuser  and  accused  both  heard  with  calmness  and 
gravity  ;  and  punishment  inflicted  or  withheld,  as  justice 
may  require. 

This  doctrine  is  only  applicable  to  the  internal 
economy  of  the  nursery  itself;  for  in  no  case  ought  com 
plaint,  however  just,  or  information,  however  accurate, 
to  be  received  from  a  child,  as  to  the  proceedings  of  the 


MANAGEMENT   OF   CHILDREN.  101 

parlour  or  the  kitchen.  It  must  indeed  be  a  most  mis 
managed  household,  where  the  children  are,  even  by 
accident,  accessible  to  knowledge  of  the  misdeeds  of 
either  parents  or  servants.  Such  knowledge  snouM 
find  no  possibility  of  access  to  their  ears.  We  may 
advert  to  this  hereafter;  we  content  ourselves  at  pre 
sent  with  the  observation  that,  if,  with  respect  to  each 
other,  the  inmates  of  the  nursery  can  only  be  properly 
permitted  to  disclose  offences  in  some  very  special  cases, 
it  is  scarcely  possible  to  conceive  a  case,  in  any  well- 
regulated  establishment,  where  a  child  can  be  a  propel 
channel  to  convey  to  a  parent's  ear  the  indecorums 
of  the  household ;  the  door  of  the  nursery  or  school 
room  should  be  hermetically  sealed  to  all  unsummoned 
approach. 

Lying,  sullenness,  and  tale-bearing,  are  three  of  the 
cardinal  points  of  juvenile  delinquency :  many  would 
add  quarrelling  as  the  fourth,  while  others  would  assign 
equal  rank  to  disobedience.  We  are  inclined,  however, 
to  regard  both  in  a  more  venial  light,  unless  quarrelling 
is  followed  up  with  vindictiveness,  or  disobedience  is 
persisted  in  to  contumacy.  In  either  of  these  extreme 
cases,  the  fault  becomes  a  crime,  and  the  same  duty  of 
insisting  on  its  sinfulness,  arises ;  but  simple  dissension, 
caused  by  a  transient  impulse  of  anger,  is  not  matter 
for  stern  rebuke ;  it  rather  calls  for  conciliation  and 
expostulation.  Children  may  be  induced  to  check  the 
expression  of  anger,  but  will  not  conquer  it  merely 
because  they  are  punished  for  giving  way  to  it ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  very  remembrance  that  they  have  under 
gone  punishment  on  a  brother's  account,  often  gives  a  per- 


192  MANAGEMENT   OF   CHILDREN. 

maneney  to  angry  feeling,  which  would  have  evaporated 
with  the  moment,  had  a  reconciliation  been  instantly 
promoted.  It  is  also  proverbially  the  case,  that  there 
13  always  fault  on  both  sides,  and  unless  the  origin  of 
the  dispute  is  actually  witnessed,  it  is  most  difficult  to 
decide  to  whom  the  greater  share  belongs ;  hence,  if 
only  one  is  punished,  injustice  may  be  done ;  if  both 
undergo  the  penalty,  injustice  must  be  done.  Yet  when 
cooler  feelings  return,  and  they  are  again  susceptible  of 
instruction,  too  much  pains  cannot  be  taken  to  make 
the  reconciliation  perfect,  by  appealing  to  their  natural 
affection  for  each  other,  and  then  the  weight  of  the 
admonition  should  fall  on  the  elder,  even  if  he  happens 
not  to  be  the  aggressor. 

Nor  is  disobedience  to  be  visited  with  extreme  se 
verity  ;  we  began  with  stating  it  to  be  a  prevailing 
error  in  nursery  education,  to  make  passive  obedience 
the  basis  of  all  discipline;  an  obedient  and  a  docile 
spirit  is  assuredly  indispensable  to  all  improvement.  But 
though  the  rod  may  make  the  spirit  obedient,  it  will  not 
make  it  docile,  and  the  docility  is  at  least  as  important 
as  the  obedience ;  to  obtain  both,  the  reason  must  be 
appealed  to,  and  where  this  appeal  is  judiciously  and 
habitually  made,  it  will  seldom  be  found  that  the  dis 
obedience  of  a  child  amounts  to  contumacy.  When  it 
does,  it  must  be  subdued  :  but  where  it  stops  short  of 
this,  it  springs  only  from  thoughtlessness  or  forgetful- 
ness  :  and  these  are  not  faults  to  demand  more  than 
gentle  reproof.  We  place  them  only  in  the  same  class 
with  untidyness,  carelessness,  negligence,  or  impatience. 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 

*  Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear, 

And  wholly  bright  to  view, 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue  ; 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled 

If  but  one  streak  of  light — 
One  ray  of  God's  great  mercy — gild 
The  darkness  of  their  night  "  TRENCK. 

WITH  now  much  force  did  these  lines  come  to  me,  as 
I  listened  this  morning  to  the  petulant  complaints  of  a 
neighbour,  who  came  in  to  sit  an  hour  with  me  !  The 
poor  woman  would  have  me  believe  that  her  sky  was 
ever  cloudy,  nor  was  ever  gilded  by  "  one  streak  of 
light."  Yet  she  is  blessed  with  an  indulgent  husband, 
who  loves  her  as  much  as  he  can  love  an  habitual  grum 
bler.  Her  children  are  active  little  beings,  for  whom 
she  ought  to  feel  the  deepest  thankfulness.  The  ap 
pointments  of  her  household  betoken  an  abundance  and 
the  best  of  this  world's  goods.  She  has  keen  intellect, 
and  the  means  for  satisfying  every  mental  craving  ;  but, 
alas !  her  wit  is  only  expended  in  sarcasm,  and  in  con 
tempt  of  all  that  surround  her — yes,  even  of  husband, 
children,  and  home  ! 

The  fiend  of  discontent  sits  for  ever  by  her  side,  and 
paints  all  things  in  dark,  distorted  lines,  and  false  colour 
ing,  and  shuts  out  from  her  soul's  vision  the  fair,  sunny 
side  of  life.  The  "  inner  eye"  recognises  nothing  of  the 
sweet  look  which  nature  wears,  nor  reflects  the  shining 
13 


194  THE    BRIGHT    SIDE. 

glory  of  the  material  world,  nor  the  ttndcr  kindness  of 
human  faces.  She  sees  deceit  in  smiles,  treachery  in 
kisses,  and  guilt  in  the  blush  of  youth  and  animation. 
Her  heart  is  thrilled  by  no  true,  sweet  echoes.  The 
warbling  of  woodbirds — the  music  of  waterfalls,  arid 
even  the  gentle  speech  of  friends,  have  each  for  her 
some  peculiar  monotony,  or  harshness,  or  dissonance. 
Alas  !  that  she  should  hear  little  children  call  her  by 
the  sweet,  sacred  name  of  mother,  and  not  be  stirred  by 
holy,  softening  emotions !  They  call  her  mother,  but 
know  nothing  of  maternal  advice  and  sympathy — so 
precious,  so  all-healing  !  Those  little  children  hide  from 
her,  most  carefully,  their  faults  and  sorrows,  for  they 
shrink  from  the  sharp  invective,  the  stern,  unloving  re 
proof  with  which  their  confessions  would  be  received. 
She  has  no  "bright  side"  for  their  griefs,  nor  tender 
prayer,  nor  consoling  counsel,  for  winning  the  erring 
one  to  repentance  and  hopeful  resolves. 

Poor  things  ! — there  are  step-children  far  happier  than 
they,  obliged  to  speak  of  this  sad  mockery  as  their  real 
mother!  Ah!  the  brother-baby  that  was  taken  away 
by  the  angels  has  found,  we  may  believe,  his  real  mo 
ther,  with  her  bright  face,  and  her  voice  soft  and  musical 
with  affection. 

Nor  do  the  children  "tell  mother"  their  little  plea 
sures  and  plans — that  would  be  most  ruinous  policy  ! 
She  would  be  sure  to  discover  in  every  loved  amusement 
some  hidden  danger,  or  certain  disaster,  or  dire  wicked 
ness,  which  they,  by  themselves,  would  never  have  found 
out ;  and  so  they  prefer,  by  keeping  silence,  never  to  find 
it  out. 


THE   BRIGHT   SIDE.  195 

Little  Willie  had  been  told,  by  his  cousins,  a  long, 
wonderful,  yet  "real,  true"  story  of  all  the  delightful 
things  to  be  enjoyed  "out  at  grandfather's" — of  clover 
fields,  haymaking,  meadow-larks,  poneys,  bee-hives, 
cows,  frisky  pigs, — and  "  such  a  dog  that  knew  every 
thing" — arid  "such  a  great,  high  tree,  that  can  be 
climbed  as  easy  as  a  stairway,  and  from  the  top  of  which 
you  can  see  almost  to  the  city  !"  Then  there  is  an  old 
mysterious  garret  for  rainy  days — just  like  the  one  Ik 
Marvel  tells  about — and  grandmother! — "she  looks  ex 
actly  like  Dame  Bountiful  in  the  Fairy  Book  !"  Oh, 
how  the  little  boy's  fancy  revelled  in  these  enchanting 
scenes,  and  straightway  came  the  daring  thought  that 
he,  Willie,  might  go  and  see  that  good  old  grandmother, 
and  be  a  partaker  in  these  darling  country  sports  !  At 
last  hope  made  him  bold  to  face  his  mother  with  the  re 
quest  to  "go  home  with  grandfather  the  next  time  he 
comes  to  town." 

Oh,  what  a  damper  of  an  answer  he  got !  How  sadly 
the  boy's  anticipations  drooped  beneath  it !  Hear  her  : 
"  No,  child,  it  isn't  worth  while  for  you  to  go  out  to  that 
dull  place  for  the  risk. of  getting  your  neck  broken,  or 
being  drowned  in  the  great  pond !  Don't  say  another 
word  about  it,  but  go,  now,  and  study  your  multiplica 
tion-table  !"  And  then  in  a  croaking,  soliloquizing  tone, 
"  They  are  certainly  the  most  ungrateful  children  that 
ever  were  born — to  think  of  the  very  youngest  fretting 
to  leave  his  mother's  wing  !"  Wing,  indeed  !  To  poor 
Willie  it  was  only  a  great  spectral  thing,  after  the  raven 
or  bat  order,  which  was  for  ever  spread  between  him 
and  all  that  the  wide  world  had  of  freedom  or  delight. 


196  THE   BRIGHT    SIDE. 

and  which  always  came  flapping  along  to  brush  away  his 
grand,  boyish  projects,  just  as  they  had  reached  their 
prime  !  What  a  discouraging,  dismal  mother !  To  her, 
gay,  light-hearted  girls  are  frivolous,  and  all  boys  noisy 
savages,  who  are,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  be  snubbed, 
and  stinted,  and  put  down  I 

Let  us  leave  such  a  very  dark  side  of  the  picture,  and 
turn  to  the  cheerful,  ever-youthful  mother,  whose  coun 
tenance  is  beaming  with  love  glances  and  caressing 
smiles  ;  whose  heart  is  ever  ready  with  its  hearty,  warm, 
abundant  sympathy  ;  whose  very  presence  brings  a  sense 
of  safety  and  comfort.  She  is  so  "full  of  fun,"  as  the 
little  ones  say;  so  inventive,  appreciating — no  one  with 
in  her  sphere  grows  stupid,  morose,  or  idle.  What  child, 
with  such  a  mother,  could  be  naughty  for  a  very  long 
time  ?  Who  could  deceive  her  ? 

Her  daily  life  preaches  a  beautiful,  convincing  sermon 
of  "  good-will  towards  men."  Her  patience  and  self- 
sacrifice  have  silent,  irresistible  force,  and  the  children 
must  needs  "do  as  mother  does."  Her  trust  in  Divine 
Providence  is  so  real  and  practical — her  belief  in  the 
Bible  so  firm  and  loving — her  religion  so  active — and 
her  conscience  so  delicate — cognisant  of  the  minutiae  of 
thought,  feeling,  and  deed,  that  her  children  catch  the 
inspiration,  and  learn  to  love  to  "do  as  mother  does." 
Manhood  and  womanhood  find  them  ready  for  all  that 
life  has  for  them  to  do,  strong  in  the  hope,  and  trust, 
and  belief  in  which  "mother"  did  rest  and  live. 

READER,  have  you  such  a  mother?  Do  you  help  to 
make  that  "bright  side"  to  which  her  eye  is  evei  turned? 

I  did  not  think,  when  I  began,  of  saying  so  much 


THE    BRIGHT    SIDE.  197 

about  maternal  influence,  but  my  thoughts  have  ever 
such  tendency. 

Every  subject  is  likely  to  lead  me  into  speculation  as 
to  its  connexion  with  the  mother  and  children. 

We  are  all,  in  every  position  of  life,  concerned  in  this 
seeking  for  whatever  is  beautiful  and  genial  in  life.  The 
"  Bright  Side"  is  the  side  of  truth  and  goodness,  in 
whatever  forms  they  may  be  manifested.  It  is  bounded 
by  no  conditions,  high  or  lowly,  nor  seasons,  nor  climes, 
nor  age.  It  belongs  to  that  world  in  which  every  pure, 
affectionate  spirit  does  live,  and  encloses  that  unfading 
garden  of  Paradise  which  such  a  spirit  makes  for  itself. 
It  takes  its  light  from  Heaven.  Neither  poverty,  nor 
hard  labour,  nor  pain,  nor  separation  from  friends,  can 
darken  that  spiritual  radiance. 

DEAR  READERS — let  us  not  only  look  with  "  thankful 
love"  on  every  ray  which  God's  great  mercy  sends  us, 
but  let  us  seek  continually  in  all  people  the  kind,  the 
true,  and  the  amiable.  For  there  is  no  human  being, 
however  degraded,  that  possesses  not  some  spark  of 
goodness,  and  some  divine  truth  which  that  spark  keeps 
alive. 

Let  us  meet  the  stranger  without  suspicion,  or  desire 
to  know  his  faults.  Let  us  be  our  own  judge  of  him, 
closing  our  hearts  against  all  that  gossip  or  slander  may 
say.  We  will  meet  him  with  the  "  charity  that  hopcth 
all  things."  We  will  receive  him  as  the  angels  receive 
a  new  comer  from  this  world — eager  to  discover  what  he 
has  that  is  wise  and  good,  and  to  cherish  and  encourage 
in  him  all  heavenly  affections. 

And  now  let  me  leave  you  with  an  appropriate  couplet 


198  A    WORD    TO    PARENTS. 

from  the  author  whose  verses  I  quoted  in   opening  this 
appeal  for  the  Bright  Side : — 

"Envy  detects  the  spots  in  the  great  orb  of  light, 
Aiid  Love,  the  little  stars  in  the  darkest,  saddest  night." 


A  WORD  TO  PARENTS. 

LET  the  parent  take  care  to  keep  humility  ahead  of 
self-confidence.  Let  him  cherish  the  hope  in  the  child 
of  becoming  something  worthy,  amiable,  and  intelligent 
in  future,  rather  than  the  thought  of  his  being  such 
already.  Let  him  practically  impress  the  child,  that 
the  attainments  which  the  wisest  have  made,  as  com 
pared  with  those  which  are  yet  to  be  acquired,  are  as  a 
drop  of  water  compared  to  the  whole  ocean !  Let  him 
remember  the  Lord's  caution  to  us  against  self-esteem 
and  self-merit,  where  he  says,  "When  ye  shall  have  done 
all  those  things  which  are  commanded  you,  say,  We  are 
unprofitable  servants:  we  have  done  only  that  which  was 
our  duty  to  do."  This  passage,  in  other  words,  may  read 
thus  : — "  We  have  yielded  that  only  which  we  could  not 
withhold  without  robbery  ;  we  have  paid  but  a  very  small 
part  of  an  old  debt ;  and  far  be  the  thought  from  us,  that 
we  can  bring  our  Maker  into  debt  to  us,  or  to  our  merit !" 
And,  remembering  this  complete  antidote  to  self-gratu- 
lation,  should  not  a  wise  parent,  by  some  sentiment  analo 
gous  to  it,  endeavour  to  counteract  the  intoxicating 
quality  of  praise?  How  careful  we  are,  supposing  we 
are  administering  ardent  spirit  to  a  child  under  bodily 


A   WORD   TO   PARENTS.  199 

ailment,  lest,  by  giving  too  much,  we  should  injuriously 
inflame  !  It  would  be  well  if  a  caution  which  appears  to 
correspond  to  this,  were  as  carefully  observed ;  that  is, 
a  caution  lest  praise  should  do  hurt,  by  inflaming  the  self- 
love  through  its  injudicious  or  immoderate  application. 

Might  not  a  parent  say  beneficially  to  a  child  some 
thing  to  the  following  effect  ?  "  My  dear  child  !  You 
have  done  well  ;  you  have  done  your  duty ;  I  commend 
you ;  and  rejoice  while  I  compare  your  attainments  with 
your  age  and  capability ;  I  praise  your  diligence  and 
care  ;  I  present  you  with  a  reward  as  a  testimony  of  my 
love  and  approbation  ;  but  I  should  leave  my  duty  un 
fulfilled  if  I  did  not  remind  you,  that  the  benefit  of  your 
improvement  and  well-doing  is  entirely  your  own  ;  that 
no  one  can  owe  you  anything  because  you  have  done 
well ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  you  yourself  are  become  a 
debtor  to  your  Heavenly  Father  for  the  disposition  and 
ability  which  he  has  given  you  to  become  good  and  wise, 
for  goodness  and  wisdom  are  his  best  gifts,  being  the  only 
springs  of  true  happiness.  While,  then,  I  praise  you, 
or  whenever  any  one  else  praises  you,  it  becomes  you  to 
take  such  praise  only  as  a  testimony,  that  you  owe  to 
your  Heavenly  Father  still  higher  praise,  for  giving  you 
a  title  to  receive  praise  from  me,  or  from  others;  and 
then  you  will  be  willing  to  refer  all  merit  and  praise  to 
Him  alone.  Remember,  also,  that  if  I  praise  you  for 
learning,  or  doing  right,  my  praise  implies  that  you 
should  refer  it  back  to  me,  in  part,  because  whore  would 
have  been  your  title  to  such  praise,  had  not  I  first  im 
parted  to  you  information,  and  made  you  sensible  of  tho 
great  privilege  and  happiness  of  doing  right  ?  You  will 


200  A    WORD    TO    PARENTS. 

not  then,  my  dear  child,  think  highly  of  yourself  because 
I  or  others  praise  you,  but  you  will  reverence  and  adore 
the  Lord,  who  has,  in  his  goodness,  given  you  a  good 
will  and  ability ;  and  you  will  esteem  and  love  your  pa 
rents,  because  they,  by  that  wise  instruction  which  the 
Lord  has  helped  them  to  administer,  have  opened  and 
directed  your  faculties  to  their  destined  improvement  in 
goodness  and  knowledge."  Thus  will  the  parent  teach 
his  child  to  love  his  parents  more  than  himself,  and 
to  value  them  more  than  he  values  himself;  and  this 
will  be  the  best  preparation  for  the  child's  coming,  at 
maturity,  into  that  regenerate  state  in  which  he  will  love 
the  Lord  for  his  goodness  more  than  himself ;  (knowing 
that,  of  himself  he  is  nothing  !)  and  esteem  the  Lord's 
wisdom,  that  is,  THE  TRUTH,  above  his  own  intellectual 
powers,  attainments,  or  opinions. 

In  supposing  a  child  to  merit  reward  and  praise  from 
his  parents,  we  are,  of  course,  supposing  him  to  be  tracta 
ble  and  teachable.  Now  the  giving  such  a  stimulus  as 
reward  and  praise  is  often  resorted  to  as  a  means  of  en 
couraging  and  cherishing  an  obedient  and  teachable  dis 
position  ;  but  may  not  a  bad,  selfish  motive  be  thua 
inspired,  which  will  do  more  harm,  than  the  good  con 
duct  will  do  good  ;  and  which,  in  the  end,  by  feeding 
selfishness  and  self-will,  may  render  a  child  more  un- 
tractable  and  untcachable  than  ever? 

There  is  a  far  better  way  than  this  of  encouraging 
teachableness  ;  that  is,  by  implanting  in  the  child's  mind 
that  very  disposition  which  is  the  solid  ground  of  it. 
And  here  let  us  recur  to  the  Lord's  example,  where  he 
says,  "  If  any  man  will  do  his  will3  he  shall  know  of  tho 


HOUSEHOLD    MUSIC.  201 

doctrine  whether  it  be  of  God."  It  is  here  declared,  that 
the  capability  of  learning  and  being  taught  the  truth i 
depends  upon  the  willingness  to  obey  the  teacher's  will, 
in  which  there  must  be  a  confidence,  that  such  will  is 
good  in  its  requirements,  and,  therefore,  that  it  is  good 
to  yield  it.  By  analogy  it  follows:  that  the  most  effect 
ual  way  to  lead  a  child  to  learn  and  imbibe  truth  is,  to 
beget  in  him  a  willingness  to  obey  the  parent's  will;  so 
that  we  are  again  led  to  the  burden  of  all  our  arguments, 
that  so  far  as  a  child's  ill  propensities  are  effectually  coun 
teracted,  so  far  the  parent's  will  becomes  the  child's 
will ;  and  for  the  purposes  of  instruction,  the  parent's 
understanding  becomes  the  child's  understanding;  and, 
as  a  consequence,  the  pure  happiness  of  the  regenerate 
parent  becomes,  in  a  degree,  the  child's  happiness;  and, 
as  a  further  consequence,  the  religion  of  the  parent,  the 
cause  of  the  child's  happiness  as  well  as  of  the  parent's, 
becomes  immovably  implanted  in  the  child's  mind. 


HOUSEHOLD  MUSIC. 

ONE  evening,  taking  my  little  boy,  a  child  of  two  and 
a  half  years,  in  my  arms,  to  lull  him  to  rest,  as  have 
fond  mothers  since  the  world  began,  I  took  up  a  book 
of  simple  nursery  rhymes,  that  some  one  had  left  on  my 
table,  containing  the  words  and  music  on  opposite  pages. 
As  I  listlessly  turned  the  leaves,  and  carelessly  hummed 
the  music,  I  heard  a  soft  sigh  from  my  child  ;  but,  with 
out  apparently  noticing  him,  I  sang  on,  when  dewy  tears 


202  HOUSEHOLD   MUSIC. 

welled  out  from  beneath  his  closed  eyelids ;  but  still  I 
sang,  till,  nestling  closer  to  my  bosom,  the  little  fellow 
half  whispered,  his  voice  broken  by  sobs,  "  Oh,  tnainm.i, 
don't  sing  that !"  Surprised  at  the  circumstance,  I  sought 
for  the  cause.  Examining  the  book,  I  found  I  had  been 
humming  the  well-known  air  by  Sir  J.  Stevenson,  the 
Vesper  Hymn.  I  knew  no  association  connected  with 
the  air  that  could  awaken  such  emotion  in  my  boy ;  the 
words  were  entirely  common-place,  and  could  not  have 
been  the  cause ;  and  to  determine  that  question,  many 
weeks  after,  under  like  circumstances,  I  again  sang  the 
same  air  to  words  totally  different,  but  the  same  result 
followed, — first  the  silent  tear,  then  a  burst  of  mournful 
weeping. 

Often,  when  I've  heard  the  power  of  music  denied  or 
ridiculed,  have  I  thought  of  this  incident.  'Tell  us,  ye 
wise  utilitarians !  dwells  there  not  a  potent  spell  in  an 
art  that  can  work  effects  like  these  ?  Tell  us,  ye  learned 
metaphysicians  !  what  subtler  chords  vibrate  in  the  human 
heart,  than  answer  to  its  touch  ?  Oh,  ye  mothers  !  i-is- 
tcrs !  prize  your  lovely  gift,  and  by  it  weave  strong 
bands,  wreathe  golden  chains,  binding  in  one  loving  circle 
the  dwellers  at  your  hearth-stone. 

Oh,  ye  parents !  ye  who  bend  daily  at  the  altar  of 
devotion,  lose  not  the  holy  influence  of  this  "  most  sweet  " 
accompaniment;  let  with  your  morning  orisons — let  with 
your  evening  sacrifice  ascend  the  voice  of  praise  to  the 
•Highest!  "for  praise  is  comely,  and  it  is  good  to  sing 
praises  unto  our  God  !"  Yea,  with  the  royal  psalmist 
let  us  say,  "  I  will  sing  praises  while  I  have  being." 

Who  does  not  feel  and  acknowledge  the  power  of  the 


HOUSEHOLD    MUSIC.  203 

human  voice  ?  In  whoso  memory — how  thickly  overpiled 
it  may  be,  with  a  long  life's  gathered  incrustations,  with 
the  thick  layers  of  a  stern  life's  realities — down,  deep 
down  in  the  heart's  recesses, — dwells  there  not  the  echo 
of  a  mother's  lullaby — the  remembrance  of  sweet  hymns 
heard  in  earliest  years?  In  "  visions  of  the  night,"  in 
1  reams  of  long-gone  times  and  scenes,  they  come  to  us 
\ike  whispers  of  distant  lutes,  like  the  harmony  of  soft 
chords,  such  as  one  conceives  the  angels  loved  to  harp. 
Because  the  influence  of  music  is  not  measurable  by  a 
mathematical  scale,  is  not  reducible  to  a  logarithmic 
expression,  too  many  deem  its  power  a  fiction  of  poets 
and  dreamers  ;  but,  parents  !  surrounded  by  young,  im 
pressible  minds,  reject  so  false  aii  estimate,  and  despise 
not  the  moulding  power  you  may  exert  on  plastic  hearts, 
by  your  tuneful  praises  of  the  "Lord  of  Hosts."  Silently 
and  unseen,  perhaps,  you  shall  plant  a  seed  that  "  after 
many  days  "  shall  prove  a  gentle  cord  to  lure  back  to 
paths  of  peace  and  virtue,  a  wayward,  erring  child,  who, 
though  widely  straying,  shall,  in  some  silent  watch,  hear 
the  still  whisper  of  a  reproving  conscience,  floating  in, 
as  it  were,  upon  his  soul's  ear,  in  tones  of  an  old,  familiar 

melody — 

"Return,  oh  •wanderer!  return, 
And  seek  an  injured  Father's  face.'5 

What  a  reward  !  what  notes  of  rapture  shall  sound  from 
the  redeemed,  over  one  so  reclaimed  ! 

It  needs  no  great  skill  in  the  science  of  music  for  this 
office  in  social  worship.  Sing  the  old  airs  and  melodies 
your  grandsires  sang.  The  older,  simpler,  perhaps  the 
dearer.  They  have  the  charm  of  associations  of  your 


204  LOVE'S   YEARNING. 

early  days.  They  are  linked  with  sweet  memories  of 
those,  perhaps,  who  have  long  sung  nobler  songs,  long 
struck  golden  lyres.  There's  no  melody  on  earth  so 
perfect  as  the  blending  of  kindred  voices.  Gather,  then, 
your  households,  and  attune  their  hearts  and  voices  to 
sing  "  the  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb."  "What  medium 
more  fitting  by  which  to  celebrate  the  praises  of  a  Saviour 
such  as  ours — to  extol  a  love  so  ineffable  as  His  ?  Daily 
let  our  voices  "beat  the  heavenward  flame,"  preparing 
us  to  join  the  seraph-choir,  if  at  last  we  be  permitted  to 

Soar  and  touch  the  heavenly  strings, 
And  vie  with  Gabriel  while  he  sings 
In  notes  that  are  divine." 


LOVE'S  YEARNING. 

"  ARE  they  all  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  all  but  one;  and  she  has  just  waked  up  from  a 
nap — she  will  be  down  soon." 

"  Isn't  it  a  beautiful  sight  ?"  exclaimed  a  fashionably- 
dressed  woman,  sinking  languidly  into  a  scat,  and 
smoothing  the  folds  of  her  thick  satin. 

"Beautiful,  but  exceedingly  sad,"  replied  another, 
whose  lip  trembled,  and  in  whose  eyes  stood  unrestrain 
ed  tears  ;  "  the  little  darlings  are  motherless." 

"  Yes,  but  how  well  they  are  provided  for  !  Just  look 
at  that  sweet  little  thing  with  the  auburn  curls.  Isn't 
she  pretty?" 


LOVE'S   YEARNING.  205 

Pretty  she  was,  indeed ;  nay,  beautiful,  with  her  little 
round  limbs  full  of  dimples — the  short  frock  hanging 
archly  over  the  plump  ankles.  A  sight  worth  seeing 
Mas  that  band  of  motherless  children.  There  was  one 
they  called  Matty,  with  bright,  crisp  curls,  and  dancing 
eyes  —another  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Lilly,  with 
eyes  as  blue  as  heaven,  and  brow  as  fair  as  unstained 
enow.  Some  were  plain  and  sickly,  but  most  had  the 
rosy  glow-  -the  smile  unconscious,  yet  happy,  of  con 
fiding  infancy. 

"Many  years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  turning  to 
the  matron,  "  I  promised  a  dear  friend  that,  in  the  event 
of  her  death,  if  she  left  daughters,  they  should  be  taken 
to  my  heart  and  home.  She  was  unfortunate  after  that, 
I  heard — though  I  lost  sight  of  her — and  died  misera 
bly  poor.  I  traced  her  to  this  city,  and  here,  they  tell 
me,  is  her  only  child — a  girl. 

"  The  name  ?"  asked  the  matron. 

"  A  plain  one — Mary  Harson  ;  her  mother  was  beau 
tiful,"  she  added,  running  her  eye  along  the  group,  and 
among  the  sparkling  faces  and  curly  heads. 

"Bring  Mary  Harson  down,"  said  the  matron  to  an 
assistant ;  and  Mrs.  Eastman,  startled  from  her  compo 
sure,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as  the  child 
entered. 

She  was  a  little,  odd  figure,  with  large  eyes,  almost 
preternaturally  bright,  thin  in  form,  neither  elastic  in 
limb  nor  rosy  of  cheek.  She  came  forward  with  painful 
timidity,  and  laid  that  small,  shrunken  hand  in  the 
gloved  hand  of  the  lady,  holding  it  there  as  if  it  were 


206  LOVE'S    YEARNING. 

not  a  part  of  herself — but  something  she  was  obliged  to 
offer. 

"She's  a  strange  child,"  said  the  matron,  reading  the 
glance  of  her  visitor,  "  but  intelligent.  Her  great  fault 
is  her  sensitive  temperament;  she  never  ceases  mourning 
for  her  mother — that  for  so  little  a  child  is  singular, 
you  know — and  she  dead  so  long." 

Mrs.  Eastman  had  fully  expected  that  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  that  little  group  was  the  child  of  her 
early  friend.  Much'  she  was  disappointed  at  the  diminu 
tive  figure  and  plain  features  of  this  little  stranger,  and 
her  looks  showed  her  regret.  She  strove  to  master  it, 
however,  as  she  gazed  at  the  downcast  child — the  weak 
frame  so  eager  to  shrink  out  of  notice. 

"  Will  you  be  my  little  girl?"  she  said. 

The  pale  under  lip  quivered,  and  the  diminutive  thtnnlj 
sought  shelter  in  her  mouth,  while  her  eyes  were  cast 
towards  the  floor ;  but  she  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Certainly  you  will  like  to  go  with  this  lady,"  said 
the  matron,  encouragingly;  "you  will  love  to  live  in  a 
fine  house,  and  have  plenty  of  dolly-babies,  plenty  to  eat, 
and  everybody  to  love  you  ?  Say  yes  to  the  lady — she 
is  going  to  be  your  mother." 

That  word  broke  the  loosed  fountain — a  long-drawn, 
convulsive  sigh,  that  must  nearly  have  broken  her  little 
heart,  dilated  the  child's  whole  figure — then  the  tears 
fell  fast  and  copiously,  and  she  sobbed  so  violently  that 
Mrs.  Eastman  exclaimed,  pettishly, 

"Why,  what  a  queer  child  it  is!"  at  which  the  litfie 
one  sobbed  harder  than  ever — and  the  matron  led  her 
from  the  room. 


LOVE  (5   YEARNING.  207 

"  Tincy,  my  love,  be  quiet,  and  get  your  lesson. 
Christmas  is  coming,  you  know ;  and  you  must  do  your 
best.  Mary,  your  eyes  are  constantly  wandering;  why 
will  you  not  heed  what  I  say  ?  Are  you  dreaming  ?" 

The  little  one  started,  cast  a  long,  mournful  look  in 
the  face  bent  above  hers,  and,  with  a  deep,  oldish  sigh, 
gathered  her  brows,  and  resolutely  applied  herself  to  her 
book. 

The  parlour  was  beautiful,  and  well  supplied  with 
luxuries.  The  rich  red  of  the  coal  glow  brought  out 
innumerable  pictures  of  rosewood  carving,  and  struck 
into  vivid  light  the  rare  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Tiney,  a  girl  with  bright  black  eyes,  set  in  a  roguish 
face,  held  in  her  hand  a  little  silver  pencil,  with  which, 
though  her  mother  did  not  see  her,  she  was  making  pic 
tures  on  the  margin  of  her  books.  She  was  the  child 
of  wealth ;  any  one  might  have  known  that,  for  the 
garments  folding  over  those  polished  limbs  were  of  fine 
and  dainty  material.  A  rich  necklace  of  coral,  with 
golden  clasps,  encircled  her  neck  ;  and  her  little  shoes, 
neatly  laced,  shone  in  a  casing  of  the  brightest  kid.  The 
little  girl  at  her  side  was  not  a  wrhit  the  less  beautifully 
attired  ;  but  from  her  brow  the  innocent  joys,  and  loves, 
and  sweet  surprises  of  childhood  seemed  permanently 
banished.  Even  the  rose-light  of  health  looked  only 
dimly  through  the  transparent  cheeks,  and  her  large 
sad  eyes  always  made  one  think  of  something  mournful. 
A  chubby  babe,  almost  ready  for  the  nursery,  lay  quietly 
upon  the  lounge,  drowsily  playing  with  his  blocks,  and 
crowing  in  an  undertone. 

"  How  now  !" — that  voice  was  all  heart — "  How  long 


208  LOVE'S   YEARNING 

have  you  been  dumb — all  of  you  ?  Come,  I'm  for  a  game 
— rouse  up — look  something  like  life  !"  and  Mr.  East 
man  thiew  his  great  frame  into  an  easy-chair,  holding 
out  his  arms  for  the  now  wide-awake  baby. 

"  Tiney,  do  you  know  your  lesson  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  answered  the  child,  hastily  conceal 
ing  the  pencil  she  had  made  her  plaything. 

"And  you,  Mary?" 

*•  No,  mamma,"  timidly  replied  the  more  conscientious 
Maiy. 

"  Then  you  must  not  expect  to  play,"  said  Mrs.  East 
man,  sharper  than  was  wont.  "  There,  no  crying — I'm 
tired  of  it." 

"  Don't  be  harsh  to  her,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Eastman, 
softly  ;  "  perhaps  she  isn't  well." 

'•  Then,  if  she  isn't  well,  she  may  go  to  bed,"  added 
the  lady,  impatiently ;  "  but  I  know  better,  she  is  well 
— and  she  will  be  well — and  she  will  look  like  a  funeral 
all  the  time,  notwithstanding  all  I  have  done  for  her.  I 
hate  ingratitude." 

"  Never  mind,  Molly,  you'll  try  harder  to  study  to 
morrow — won't  you  ?"  But  the  child  shrieked  convul 
sively,  as  his  kind  voice  touched  her  heart,  and  laying 
her  head  low  on  her  hands,  sobbed  as  she  had  not  for 
many  days. 

A  bitter  look  crossed  Mrs.  Eastman's  face.  Just  then 
a  servant  came  in.  "  Take  Miss  Mary  to  her  room— - 
where  she  can  stay  till  she  feels  better,"  she  said,  sternly ; 
and  her  husband,  who  could  think  of  no  cause  for  such 
strange  conduct,  silently  acquiesced. 

"I  shall  dislike  her  by-and-bye,   I  fear,"   said  the 


LOVE'S   YEARNING.  209 

lady,  half-communing  with  herself.  "  I  don't  see  what  it 
is — she  has  every  comfort.  I'm  sure  poor  Mary,  her 
mother,  was  one  of  the  most  amiable  beings  that  ever 
lived.  How  little  her  child  takes  after  her  !  She  is  fur 
ever  weeping,  notwithstanding  all  I  can  do.  I've  loaded 
her  with  toys,  and  anticipated  all  her  wishes,  yet  she 
will  be  sad  and  miserable.  I  don't  understand  it.  I'm 
out  of  all  patience." 

Ah  !  kind  mother  and  gentle  friend,  you  know  not 
that  little  tender  heart !  You  could  not  touch  its  quiver 
ing  strings  but  to  wake  discordant  notes.  The  spirit  so 
sensitive,  shrinking  if  a  breath  brushed  it  too  harshly, 
needed  at  least  something  akin  to  a  mother's  love.  It 
yearned  for  the  good-night  kiss ;  for  the  arm  placed  in 
voluntarily  about  the  slight  form  ;  for  the  gentle  press 
ure  sometimes  given  when  least  expected.  This  that 
little  sensitive  one  longed  for — in  the  far  dark  distance 
she  looked  back,  remembering  how  it  had  been  with  her. 

Tiney  and  Mary  slept  in  two  small,  adjoining  cham 
bers.  Twice,  before  bedtime,  did  Mrs.  Eastman  send 
up  to  know  if  Mary  could  come  to  her  supper ;  but  the 
servant  returned,  saying  she  was  still  "  in  the  sulks," 
she  called  it — but  she  did  not  know.  So  the  babe  was 
laid  sweetly  in  its  cradle.  Tiney  was  carefully  disrobed 
before  the  warm,  shining  fire — her  snowy  night-dress 
put  on — and  kneeling,  with  her  white  hands  raised,  and 
clasped  in  those  of  her  mother — her  little  body  swaying 
to  the  measure  of  her  good-night  hymn,  she  happily 
prepared  for  slumber. 

"  0,  dear,  oh !  dear,  dear,  dear !"  sobbed  a  small, 
14 


210  LOVE'S    YEARNINGf. 

childish  voice,  "  will  God  please  take  me  home  to  Hea 
ven  ?" 

Mrs.  Eastn.in  paused  in  absolute  astonishment  before 
ehe  entered  Mary's  room.  The  door  was  slightly  ajar — 
the  full  moon  lay  lovingly  over  little  Mary,  its  beams 
brightening  the  white  objects  about  the  bed,  and  making 
her,  with  her  grieved,  upturned  face,  clasped  hands,  and 
streaming  eyes,  seem  like  an  angel  sorrowing  over  some 
mortal's  untimely  sin. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  lonely  !"  sighed  the  little  thing,  still 
talking  to  her  Father  in  Heaven — "  this  mother  don't 
love  me — I  know  she  don't — she  loves  her  own  little 
girl,  for  she  kisses  her  a  great  deal,  and  she  looks  at  her 
licippy  ;  but,  oh,  dear  God,  she  don't  love  me  like  her ! 
Please  take  me  right  to  Heaven  !" 

Mrs.  Eastman  swallowed  her  emotion ;  pity  swelled 
at  her  heart.  She  remembered  how  quick  the  rebuking 
•word  sprang  forth  at  any  of  her  faults ;  how  often  she 
called  her  "  lazy  little  thing,"  because  she  turned 
dreamily  awray  from  her  book,  and  how  frequently  she 
sent  her  to  her  slumbers  without  one  word  of  praise, 
while  she  almost  smothered  her  own  child  with  caresses. 

All  this  while  the  child  was  sobbing  as  she  prayed, 
"  Don't  let  me  cry  so  much,  dear  God,  because  they  say 
I'm  cross  and  wicked  !  Oh,  God,  do  let  me  think  of  my 
own  dear  mamma,  without  feeling  so  very  bad ;  and 
don't  let  me  think  what  nice  times  we  used  to  have  when 
little  Willy  was  alive,  and  mamma  used  to  smile  on  us 
BO  sweetly !  Oh,  dear  good  God,  if  I  might  only  go  to 
Heaven  with  my  dear  mother,  I  never  could  want  to  cry 
agtini" 


LOVE'S   YEARNING.  211 

Mrs.  Eastman  hurried  down  stairs,  and,  going  by  htr- 
self,  bitterly  wept.  She  saw  all  her  error,  and  how  sor 
rowful  she  was  making  that  young  life.  Drying  her 
toars,  after  a  prayer  for  guidance,  she  hastened  up 
stairs.  Little  Mary  had  undressed,  and  with  all  a  wo 
man's  precision  had  laid  her  clothes  carefully  aside. 

"Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  in  a  soft  voice. 

The  child  looked  round,  alarmed. 

"  Mary,  shan't  I  hear  your  prayers,  love  ?" 

Not  a  word  said  the  child ;  but  with  her  great  eyes 
wide  open,  she  came  slowly  towards  her  foster-mother, 
and  dropped  on  her  knees ;  nor  did  she  take  her  won 
dering  glance  from  that  gentle  face  till  she  had  repeated 
the  last  amen. 

"Now  kiss  me,  darling!"  said  Mrs.  Eastman,  with 
trembling  voice. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  moment.  The  child  caught 
her  breath  ;  then  flung  her  arms  passionately  about  the 
neck  of  her  mother,  kissing  her  again  and  again.  With 
a  new  impulse  the  foster-mother  strained  her  to  her  bo 
som,  and  so  held  her,  while  the  hot  tears  fell  like  rain 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  And  do  you  think  you  can  love  me  ?"  she  murmured, 
disengaging  herself  from  the  rapturous  embrace. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do  love  you ;  I  love  you  like  my  own 
dear  mamma ;  oh,  you  never  were  so  good  to  me  be 
fore  !" 

"And  you  will  not  cry  so  much,  my  darling,  and 
make  me  sad." 

"  No,  I  will  never  cry,  for  I  think  my  own  mamma  has 
come  back  from  Heaven — my  sorry  has  all  gone.  How 


212  DEAL   GENTLY   WITH    THE   TIMID   CHILD. 

kind  you  are,  mamma  !"  and  the  beautiful  head  reposed 
lovingly,  and  without  rebuke,  against  the  heart  beating 
with  such  new  and  sweet  tenderness :  and  when  Mrs. 
Eastman  again  looked  down  the  child  was  sleeping,  with 
an  angelic  happiness  playing  over  her  serene  counte 
nance. 

From  that  time  little  Mary  was  like  a  new  creature, 
It  was  love  she  yearned  for  ;  her  tender  nature,  like  the 
flower  for  the  dew,  pined  for  its  sweet  nourishment. 
Never  more  she  wept  without  cause— never  went  alone 
to  her  Father,  and  in  agony  cried,  "  Dear  God,  please 
take  me  home  to  Heaven !" 


DEAL  GENTLY  WITH  THE  TIMID  CHILD. 

MRS.  LARFORD  said  : — "  '  Supposing  this  to  be  all 
right,  the  mother  will  feel  herself  from  the  first  the 
depository  of  its  confidence, — a  confidence  as  sacred  as 
any  other,  though  tacit,  and  about  matters  which  may 
appear  to  all  but  itself  and  her,  infinitely  small.  Enter 
ing  by  sympathy  into  its  fears,  she  will  incessantly 
charm  them  away,  till  the  child  becomes  open  to  reason, 
and  even  afterwards,  for  the  most  terrible  fears  are 
those  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  reason  ;  the  mother 
will  bring  it  acquainted  with  every  object  in  the  room 
or  house,  letting  it  handle  in  merry  play  everything 
which  could  look  mysterious  to  its  fearful  eyes,  and 
rendering  it  familiar  with  every  household  sound.' 

"  This  is  a   thought  worth  remembering,"  sa:d  Mrs. 


ON  GRANDPA'S  KNEE. 


DEAL   GENTLY   "WITH  THE   TIMID   CHILD.  21b 

Larford,  laying  down  her  book  for  a  moment ;  "  and  it 
reminds  me  of  a  circumstance  my  nurse  once  told  me, 
relating  to  a  child  of  hers.  The  little  girl  went  to  visit 
an  aunt,  when  about  ten  years  of  age  ;  and  after  she  was 
iu  bed  one  night,  quite  alone,  she  heard  the  clock  give 
warning  of  being  about  to  strike.  Not  having  had  a 
clock  in  her  cottage  home,  and  being  consequently 
unaccustomed  to  the  sound,  she  became  dreadfully 
alarmed,  and  when  unable  to  bear  the  terror  of  being 
alone  any  longer,  she  rushed  to  the  stairs  in  the  dark, 
fell,  and  broke  her  leg.  It  is  of  importance,  therefore, 
to  make  children  acquainted  with  the  varied  sounds 
they  may  hear  after  they  are  retired  for  the  night.  But 
to  proceed : — 

"  '  Some  of  my  worst  fears  in  infancy  were  from  lights 
and  shadoAvs.  The  lamp-lighter's  torch  on  a  winter's 
afternoon,  as  he  ran  along  the  street,  used  to  cast  a 
gleam,  and  the  shadows  of  the  window  frames  on  the 
ceiling,  and  my  blood  ran  cold  at  the  sight  every  day, 
even  though  I  was  on  my  father's  knee,  or  on  the  rug 
in  the  middle  of  the  circle  round  the  fire.  Nothing 
but  compulsion  could  make  me  enter  our  drawing-room 
before  breakfast  on  a  summer  morning ;  and  if  carried 
there  by  the  maid,  I  hid  my  face  in  a  chair,  that  I  might 
not  see  what  was  dancing  on  the  Avail.  If  the  sun  shone, 
as  it  did  at  that  time  of  day,  on  the  glass-lustres  on  the 
mantel-piece,  fragments  of  gay  colour  Avere  cast  on  the 
wall,  and  as  they  danced  Avhen  the  glass  drops  were 
shaken,  I  thought  they  were  alive — a  sort  of  imps  !  But 
as  I  never  told  anybody  Avhat  I  felt,  these  fears  could 
not  be  met  or  charmed  aAvay ;  and  I  grew  up  to  an  age 


214.  TWO   IN    HEAVEN. 

that  1  will  not  mention,  before  I  could  look  steadfastly 
at  prismatic  colours  dancing  on  the  wall.  Suffice  that 
it  was  long  after  1  had  read  enough  of  optics  to  have 
taught  my  child  how  such  colours  came  there. 

"  '  Many  an  infant  is  terrified  at  the  sriadow  of  a 
perforated  night-lamp,  with  its  round  spaces  of  light. 
Many  a  child  lives  in  perpetual  terror  of  the  eyes  of 
portraits  on  the  walls,  or  some  grotesque  shape  in  the 
pattern  of  the  paper-hangings.  Sometimes  the  terror  is 
of  the  clack  of  the  distant  loom,  or  of  the  clink  from 
the  tinman's,  or  of  the  rumble  of  carts  under  a  gateway, 
or  of  the  creak  of  a  water-wheel,  or  of  the  gush  of  a 
mill-race.  Everything  is  or  may  be  terrifying  to  a 
timid  infant;  and  it  is,  therefore,  a  mother's  charge  to 
familiarize  it  gently  and  playfully  with  everything  that 
it  can  possibly  notice,  making  sport  with  all  sights,  and 
inciting  it  to  imitation  of  all  sounds,  from  the  drone  of 
the  pretty  bee  to  the  awful  cry  of  the  old  clothes'  man, 
— from  the  twitter  of  the  sparrows  on  the  roof,  to  the 
toll  of  the  distant  church-bell.'  " 


TWO  IN  HEAVEN. 

"  You  have  two  children,"  said  I. 

"  I  have  four,"  was  the  reply ;  "  two  on  earth,  two  in 
heaven." 

There  spoke  the  mother!  Still  hers!  only  "gone 
before  !"  Still  remembered,  loved,  and  cherished,  by 
the  hearth  and  at  the  board ;  their  places  not  yet  filled, 


THE   MOTHER  AND   THE   SOW.  215 

wen  thv  ugh  their  successors  draw  life  from  the  samo 
faithful  breast  where  their  dying  heads  were  pillowed. 
"Two  in  heaven  !"  Safely  housed  from  storm  and  tem 
pest  ;  no  sickness  there,  nor  drooping  head,  nor  fading 
eye,  nor  weary  feet.  By  the  green  pastures;  tended  by 
the  Good  Shepherd,  linger  the  little  lambs  of  the  hea 
venly  fold.  "  Two  in  heaven  !"  Earth  less  attractive ! 
Eternity  nearer  !  Invisible  cords,  drawing  the  maternal 
soul  upwards.  "  Still  small"  voices,  ever  whispering 
come!  to  the  world-weary  spirit.  "Two  in  heaven!" 
Mother  of  angels,  walk  softly !  Holy  eyes  watch  thy 
footsteps,  cherub  forms  bend  to  listen  !  Keep  thy  spirit 
free  from  earth-taint;  so  shalt  thou  "go  to  them," 
though  "they  may  not  return  to  thee." 


THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON. 

IT  is  a  question  long  since  settled  by  actual  facts, 
that  the  son,  however  wayward  he  may  be,  will  listen  to 
a  mother's  voice,  and  call  to  remembrance  her  prayers, 
even  long  after  her  voice  may  be  silent  in  death,  and 
her  prayers  for  him  cease.  A  young  minister  of  the 
gospel,  now  an  active  labourer  in  the  vineyard  of  the 
Lord,  says :  "At  twelve  years  of  age  I  had  stood  beside 
the  couch  of  a  dying  mother,  whose  voice  had  often  told 
me  of  Jesus,  and  whose  prayers  had  constantly  ascended 
for  her  first-born.  The  hand  which  had  led  him  to  the 
Sabbath  School  was  now  motionless.  With  weeping 


216  THE    MOTHER   AND   THE   SON. 

eyes  and  a  sad  heart,  the  son  s/iw  the  coffin  placed  in 
the  grave." 

A  few  years  had  passed  away,  when  this  young  man 
was  led  to  make  one  honest  effort  for  his  soul's  salvation. 
Having  given  himself  to  Christ,  he  adds:  "A  mother's 
prayers  were  answered,  though  she  did  not  live  to  wit 
ness  the  conversion  of  her  son." 

Edward  Payson,  the  devoted  and  successful  Portland 
pastor,  was  a  child  of  many  prayers.  From  the  nature 
of  his  father's  professional  duties,  his  attention  to  Ed 
ward  must  have  been  less  frequent  than  his  mother's, 
and  partaken  in  some  degree  of  a  more  formal  character. 
The  recollections  of  his  mother  extend  from  very  early 
childhood  to  his  latest  days.  He  has  been  heard  to  say 
that  though  she  was  solicitous  that  he  might  be  liberally 
educated  and  be  an  accomplished  scholar,  yet  he  could 
distinctly  see  that  her  all-absorbing  thought  respecting 
him  was,  that  he  might  be  a  Christian.  To  this  end 
she  instructed  him  in  early  life,  and  followed  up  those 
instructions  with  fervent  prayers.  At  the  early  age 
of  three  years  he  was  known  to  call  his  mother  by  his 
bedside  to  talk  with  her  about  God,  and  his  relations 
to  a  future  world.  In  a  letter  to  his  parents  when  in 
college,  he  writes  thus :  "  To  your  admonitions  and 
instructions  I  am  indebted  for  all  the  moral  and  religious 
impressions  which  are  imprinted  on  my  mind,  and  which 
I  hope  will  give  me  reason  to  bless  you  through  all 
eternity."  There  is  abundant  testimony  in  the  writings 
of  Payson  that  he  attributes  his  religious  feelings,  hopes, 
and  usefulness  in  life,  to  early  parental  influences. 

Richard  Cecil  developed,  in  early  life,  a  marked  cha- 


Till-    MOTHER   AND   THE    SON.  217 

meter.  He  was  decided,  daring,  and  authoritative  ;  even 
his  school-mates  yielded  implicit  obedience  to  his  com 
mands.  But  there  was  united  with  his  almost  untame- 
able  spirit  a  generous  and  manly  heart.  His  mother 
was  pious,  and  did  not  fail  to  use  the  means  for  his 
spiritual  welfare.  He  says :  "  My  mother  would  put 
things  in  my  way,  and  I  could  not  get  rid  of  them." 
When  he  was  six  years  old,  his  mother  gave  him  a  little 
book,  "  Janeway's  Token  for  Children."  He  says:  "I 
was  much  affected  on  reading  it.  I  wept  over  it.  I  got 
into  a  corner  and  prayed  that  I  might  be  as  happy  as 
those  little  children."  His  early  religious  impressions 
wore  away  as  he  began  to  form  acquaintances  with 
young  men  into  whose  vices  and  follies  he  soon  fell,  and 
which  was  the  cause  of  his  gradual  departure  from  his 
mother's  admonitions.  He  began  to  avow  infidel  prin 
ciples  at  quite  an  early  age,  though  he  afterwards  con 
fessed  that  he  did  not  half  believe  them. 

Here  was  a  painful  passage  in  Cecil's  early  history  ; 
and  how  must  that  praying  mother  feel,  after  all  her 
counsels  and  prayers,  to  see  the  child  of  her  deepest 
affections  a  leader  in  infidel  principles  ?  Ah !  that 
mother  believed  in  God — in  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  She 
prayed  more  earnestly  for  her  boy — -and  he  has  left  a 
most  impressive  memorial  of  a  mother's  influence  in 
preserving  him,  under  God,  from  entirely  believing  a  lie. 
"I  was  afraid,"  he  says,  "to  read  any  author  who 
treated  Christianity  in  a  wise  and  searching  manner. 
Conscience  would  recall  my  early  instructions  and  im 
pressions,  while  my  happiness  could  only  consist  witt 
their  obliteration."  At  one  time  he  went  with  one  of 


218  THE   MOTHER   AND   THE    SON. 

his  associates  to  see  persons  caricatured,  when  in  the 
personage  of  a  woman  was  represented  those  persons  who 
talk  about  religion.  "  My  friend,"  he  says,  "laughed 
heartily ;  but  I  could  not,  for  I  knew  that  I  had  a 
Christian  mother." 

At  one  time  when  standing  by  the  bedside  of  a  sick 
mother,  he  asked  her  a  question  :  "  Are  you  not  afraid 
to  die  ?"  "No,  no  !"  she  replied.  "  Why  does  not  the 
uncertainly  of  another  state  give  you  no  concern  ?" 
"  She  looked  me  in  the  face,"  says  Cecil,  "with  a  holy 
and  heavenly  smile,  which  cannot  be  effaced  from  my 
memory,  and  replied,  '  Because  God  has  said  to  me,  Fear 
not ;  when  thou  passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be 
with  thee.'  The  remembrance  of  this  scene  has  often 
times  since  drawn  an  ardent  prayer  from  me  that  I  might 
die  the  death  of  the  righteous." 

Grace  at  last  conquered  the  opposition  of  Cecil's 
heart  to  the  truth  of  the  gospel.  The  seed  which  was 
faithfully  sown  by  the  hand  of  a  Christian  mother,  and 
watered  with  her  tears  in  prayer,  though  it  lay  long 
buried  in  the  heart,  at  length  sprung  up,  and  grew  with 
astonishing  vigour,  and  he  stood  out  in  the  world  a  noble 
champion  for  God  and  His  truth.  Parental  influence 
thus  cleaves  to  the  man,  and  a  mother's  prayers  are 
heard  and  answered. 

Another  striking  illustration  of  a  mother's  influence 
is  seen  in  the  early  history  of  Philip  Doddridge,  whose 
name  is  ever  associated  with  "The  Family  Expositor" 
and  the  "Hise  and  Progress  of  Religion  in  the  Soul." 
He  first  saw  the  light  in  an  obscure  street  in  London,  a 
frail  ilower  then,  for  he  was  laid  away  soon  after  his 


MOTHER.  219 

birth  as  dead.  He  had  a  mother  of  earnest  prayer  and 
living  piety.  She  taught  Iier  children  to  love  the  Scrip 
tures,  by  describing  the  scenes  in  the  Bible,  in  a  familiar 
manner,  on  the  old  Dutch  tiles  which  lined  the  chimney 
corner.  Little  did  the  mother  of  Doddridge  anticipate 
his  future  career,  when  he  reclined  on  her  knee,  followed 
the  direction  of  her  fingers  in  the  Bible,  and  in  childlike 
simplicity  listened  to  the  words  of  eternal  life.  When 
she  laid  her  hand  on  his  head  and  prayed  that  he  might 
be  a  child  of  God,  she  did  not  know  that  God  was  pre 
paring  him,  through  her  instrumentality,  to  stand  up  in 
the  pulpit  at  Northampton,  on  Castle  Hill,  and  preach 
the  gospel  with  so  much  success. 


M  0  T  II  E  R. 

YEARS  have  rolled  away  since  these  eyes  looked  their 
last,  In  this  world,  upon  "Mother,"  yet  I  cannot  now 
write  the  name,  but  it  sends  a  thrill  of  joy  and  sorrow 
through  my  frame.  Joy  that  I  had  such  a  mother ; 
sorrow  that  I  was  so  soon  deprived  of  her  priceless 
counsel  and  sympathy.  While  I  think  of  it,  ere  I  am. 
aware,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  those  tender  chords 
of  affection  that  bound  me  to  her,  vibrate  again  with  all 
their  wonted  vigour,  and  she  seems  near  me  still.  I  hear 
her  voice — I  feel  her  hand  upon  my  head — I  see  her,  as 
once  I  did,  and  rejoice  in  her  presence.  But  when  my 
senses  would  realize  the  fact,  I  am  like  the  man  who  has 
lost  an  arm ;  he  feels  the  hand,  the  fingers  as  they  were, 


220  MOTHER. 

though  amputated  years  ago ;  but  when,  with  the  other, 
he  would  touch  it.  'tis  not  there. 

Oh,  how  indelibly  does  the  mother  stamp  her  moral 
precepts  upon  the  hearts  of  her  children  !  Has  she  a 
tender  conscience,  venerating  the  word  of  God  as  its 
only  guide  ?  You  may  trust  her  children,  if  she  lived 
to  train  them  until  they  became  active  citizens.  'Tis 
true  sin  may  hide  for  years,  and  seem  to  annihilate  her 
principles,  yet  they  are  "like  fire  in  the  bones,"  as  the 
prophet  says,  or  like  a  pent  volcano  in  the  bosom. 
Sooner  or  later  they  will  burn  out,  and  the  pastor  or 
Christian  teacher  finds  that  the  foundation  for  his  work 
was  laid  years  ago,  in  the  prayers  and  tears  of  a  FAITH 
FUL  mother ;  and  he,  under  God,  is  only  permitted  to 
clear  away  a  little  of  the  rubbish,  and  bring  to  light  what 
that  mother  has  done.  I  sometimes  think  it  is  well  that 
mothers  do  not  FULLY  comprehend  the  power  they 
possess  ;  if  they  did  they  would  sink  under  the  weight  of 
their  responsibility.  Oh,  if  there  be  any  difference, 
surely,  nearest,  and  dearest  to  the  Saviour's  heart,  is  the 
patient,  faithful,  Christian  mother. 

Seeing,  in  a  recent  publication,  an  article  headed  the 
"Door  in  the  heart,"  I  have  endeavoured  to  embody 
the  sentiment  with  some  additions  and  alterations  in  the 
following  lines.  Should  they  encourage  any  in  a  per 
severing  labour  of  love,  they  will  fulfil  their  desired 
object. 


THE    KEY   TO   THE   HEART.  221 


THE  KEY  TO  THE  HEART. 

No  bandit  on  the  mountain, 

No  robber  on  the  plain, 
But  hath  within  a  fountain 

Of  sympathy  to  gain. 

No  tyrant  o'er  a  nation, 

Though  Nero  were  his  name, 

No  outcast  in  creation, 

But  hath  some  sense  of  shame. 

No  heart  how  hard  soever, 
And  calloused  o'er  by  sin, 

But  there  we  may  discover 
Some  door  to  enter  in. 

The  way  is  often  winding, 
That  hidden  door  to  reach ; 

Yet  sure  'tis  worth  the  finding 
Salvation's  truths  to  teach. 

Take  with  you  constant  kindness, 
Be  sympathy  your  guide — 

Not  long  you'll  grope  in  blindnost, 
The  key  is  on  your  side. 

Nine  times  in  ten,  I'll  venture, 
A  mother's  name  you'll  find 

Has  been  the  key  to  enter 
That  door  within  the  mind. 

Then  bear  thy  burden,  mother, 

Aye  bear  it  patiently, 
Thy  name  is  like  no  other, 

The  heart's  most  sacred  key. 


"LITTLE   THINGS." 

A  WRITER  in  the  Mother's  Journal  speaks  wisely  on 
the  importance  of  little  things : — 

Due  consideration  and  strict  watchfulness  in  little 
things,  are  of  importance  to  the  happiness  and  welfare  of 
all, — but  how  especially  do  little  things  commend  them 
selves  to  the  attention  of  a  mother  !  In  the  sphere  of  her 
duties  can  anything  be  esteemed  little  or  trifling  ?  We 
think  not.  She  has  to  deal  with  little  folks.  To  the 
mother  is  intrusted  the  directing  and  the  moulding  of 
little  intellects  just  beginning  to  bud  and  to  expand. 
Can  anything  be  deemed  trifling  that  influences,  whether 
for  good  or  evil,  these  young  but  immortal  minds  ?  Oh, 
let  a  mother  weigh  well  her  words,  before  she  allows  her 
self  to  say  of  anything  pertaining  to  the  little  ones 
around  her,  "  It  is  but  a  trifle." 

Your  little  boy  utters  an  untruth.  Do  not  say,  "  It 
was  about  a  mere  trifle,  and  besides  it  did  not  deceive 
me  for  a  moment.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  make  a  fuss 
about  it !"  A  trifle  !  Is  it  a  trifle  in  the  estimation  of 
that  little  fellow  ?  It  did  not  deceive  you  !  Did  he  not 
mean  to  deceive  ?  Oh,  as  you  value  his  future  happi 
ness  and  your  own  peace  of  mind  in  after  years,  bewaro 
how  you  pass  lightly  over  the  least  departure  from  truth. 
Gloss  it  over  with  no  softening  terms.  Let  the  little 
one  of  two  years  old  know  that  a  lie  is  displeasing  in  the 
sight  of  the  great  God.  Let  him  see  and  feel  that 


"  LITTLE   THINGS."  223 

notliing  c;m  grieve  or  displease  his  mother  more  than  to 
hear  her  darling  "tell  a  lie."  Speak  of  it  ever  with 
contempt  and  disgust,  and  let  him  see  in  every  word  and 
action  the  high  value  you  set  upon  TRUTH. 

On  entering  the  breakfast  room  you  perceive  a  little 
hand  hastily  withdrawn  from  the  sugar  bowl,  or  from 
the  plate  of  biscuit.  Do  you  say,  "  Well,  I'm  sure  a 
lump  of  sugar,  or  a  biscuit  is  a  mere  trifle.  And  the 
child  is  heartily  welcome  to  it.  I  hope  you  would  not 
pretend  to  call  that  stealing."  What  docs  the  child 
herself  consider  it  to  be'?  Why  was  the  little  hand  so 
hastily  withdrawn  ?  Why  are  her  cheeks  like  crimson, 
and  why  is  her  manner  so  confused  ?  Does  she  not 
know  that  she  has  taken  what  was  not  her  own  ?  Is 
there  not  a  monitor  within  which  tells  her  she  has  done 
wrong  ?  If  you  pass  by  the  act  as  too  trifling  for  your 
notice,  it  will  be  repeated  again  and  again.  She  also 
will  consider  it  as  a  trifle,  and  the  habit,  the  fearful 
habit  of  pilfering  will  grow  upon  her.  Little  by  little — 
little  by  little ;  till  at  last  whatever  she  wishes  for,  she 
will  take,  provided  only  she  thinks  herself  secure  against 
detection.  And  what  misery  will  be  yours  if  one  day 
you  awaken  to  the  consciousness  that  your  cherished 
daughter  hides,  beneath  a  lovely  exterior,  the  hideous 
sin  of  theft,  and  its  twin  brother,  lying  !  You  start 
with  horror  from  the  very  thought.  Beware  how  you 
pass  over  the  slightest  act  of  pilfering,  lest  you  one  day 
find  it  to  be  a  dreadful  reality. 

To  turn  to  less  serious  matters.  You  look  with  plea 
sure  on  a  well-bred  child.  You  say,  perhaps,  "  I  wish 
my  children  would  keep  their  clothes  neat,  and  try  to 


224  "LITTLE  THINGS." 

give  civil  answers  when  a  stranger  speaks  to  them." 
Have  you  watched  them  in  these  respects  ?  Or  have 
you  allowed  many  a  little  instance  of  rudeness  to  pass 
unreproved  ?  and  considered  it  too  troublesome  and  fussy 
to  teach  them  habits  of  cleanliness?  Is  "Give  me  some 
bread;"  "I  want  some  pie;"  "Get  me  my  hat,"  the 
usual  way  in  which  your  children  make  known  their 
wants  ?  and  do  you  let  them  have  the  things  they  ask  for 
thus,  because  you  "  don't  like  to  make  a  fuss  about  such 
trifles?"  No  wonder  then  that  they  grow  up  rude  arid 
uncouth  in  speech.  It  is  as  -easy  and  pleasant  for  a 
child  to  say,  "  Please,"  and  "  Thank  you,"  if  he  is  taught 
from  the  first  to  do  so,  as  it  is  for  him  to  say,  "  Give  me 
this,"  "I  want  that."  It  will  require,  it  is  true,  con 
stant  attention  to  this  little  matter  till  the  habit  is 
formed.  But  is  it  not  worth  the  trouble  ?  Rudeness  of 
manner  may  seem  a  trifle  at  two  years  old.  Is  it  a  trifle 
by  the  time  the  boy  reaches  twelve  or  fourteen  years  of 
age? 

We  might  go  on  multiplying  examples,  but  the  few 
hints  we  have  already  given  will  suffice.  And  we  wish 
to  add  a  word  or  two  upon  the  importance,  on  the  other 
hand,  of  noticing  and  encouraging  every  little  effort  to 
do  right. 

A  mother  should  endeavour,  as  far  as  possible,  to 
enter  into  her  child's  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  to  view 
things  as  he  views  them.  Then  she  will  be  able  in  some 
degree  to  estimate  the  greatness  of  the  struggle  in  the 
little  bosom,  as  the  child  stands  making  up  his  mind  to 
lend  a  favourite  plaything  to  his  little  sister ;  and  the 
pleasant  "  Here,  Fanny,  you  may  play  with  my  cart 


•'  LITTLE    THINGS."  225 

till  you  are  tired  of  it,"  will  not  be  passed  unnoticed, 
but  receive  the  wished-for  kiss  of  approbation. 

The  love  of  praise  is  stronger  in  children  than  at  any 
of.her  period  of  life.  Children  may  certainly  be  over 
praised,  and  flattery  has  sown  the  germ  of  much  evil  m 
the  youthful  heart ;  but  we  do  think  that  very  many  err 
on  the  opposite  extreme.  They  are  busy  and  do  not 
notice  the  child's  little  effort  to  win  an  approving  smile ; 
or  something  has  put  them  out  of  humour,  and  they  do 
not  feel  in  a  mood  to  praise. 

The  blocks  have  all  been  arranged  in  their  box,  and 
the  playthings  put  neatly  away,  and  the  little  boy  runs 
to  his  mother  to  tell  her  of  his  industry.  If  she  merely 
Bays,  hurriedly,  "  Very  well,  very  well,  now  you  can  go 
up  to  bed,"  what  a  disappointment  she  will  cause  to  the 
little  heart  that  expected  a  pleasant  smile  and  an  ap 
proving  "  There's  a  good  boy." 

Such  encouragement  consumes  very  little  time ;  it 
need  encroach  on  none  of  ycur  duties.  But  it  does 
make  one  important  demand  on  you,  which  is,  that  your 
attention  be  continually  alive  to  everything  which  may 
promote  the  progress  and  improvement  of  your  child ; 
and  that  your  hearty  sympathy  be  at  once  aroused  by 
every  little  effort  which  he  makes  towards  well  doing. 

And  is  this  too  much  to  ask  of  a  mother  ?  Is  it  not 
your  highest  duty,  your  sweetest  privilege,  to  direct,  tq 
support  and  encourage  those  trembling  little  steps  which 
without  your  watchful  guidance  will  surely  stray  in  paths 
of  error  and  of  sin  ?  The  steps  are  feeble  and  faltering 
now,  the  progress  is  slow ;  but,  Christian  mother,  let 
yours  be  the  blessed  task  of  placing  those  little  feet  in 
15 


226         THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL. 

the  right  way,  and  aiding  them  in  their  gradual  progress, 
and  then  yours  will  be  the  bright  reward  of  beholding 
them  in  later  years  running  with  patience  the  race  set 
before  them,  "  pressing  on  towards  the  mark  for  the 
prize  of  the  high  calling  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus." 
Doubt  it  not,  for  the  word  of  the  Lord  has  spoken  it. 


THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL. 

"  WELL  there,"  muttered  Mrs.  Lee,  in  a  somewhat 
petulant  tone,  as  she  laid  down  her  babe  ;  "  thank  for 
tune,  as  the  last  one  is  abed  and  asleep.  NOAV  for  a 
little  comfort." 

Carefully  drawing  the  blankets  around  the  tiny  form, 
she  rested  one  hand  for  a  few  moments  upon  the  gently 
heaving  breast,  stirred  the  cradle  with  the  other,  singing 
the  while  a  low  lullaby. 

Assured  from  its  soft  breathing,  and  quiet  limbs,  that 
it  was  indeed  asleep,  she  turned  from  it  quickly,  drew 
her  low  rocker  to  the  stand,  picked  up  the  light,  and 
took,  from  underneath  a  miscellaneous  pile  in  her  work 
basket,  an  uncut  novel. 

"  What  a  beautiful  title !"  said  she,  all  traces  of 
weariness  vanishing  with  electric  rapidity  from  lur 
countenance.  As  her  eye  glanced  over  its  pages,  the 
dull  look  they  had  worn  all  day  disappeared,  and  the 
light  of  anticipated  joy  flashed  in  its  stead. 

"  I  know  that  I  shall  be  pleased  with  it.  I  feel  that 
it  will  be  interesting,"  continued  she. 


THE   CHILDREN   AND   THE   NOVEL.  227 

"  What  charming  names  the  author  has  chosen.  Nono 
of  your  Johns  and  Hannahs,  your  Roberts  and  Marga 
rets — oh  no  !  here  is  noble  Rodrigo,  poetic  Clarence, 
sweet  Florilla,  saintly  Therese :  why,  there  is  not  an 
ordinary  name  in  the  book.  The  writer  must  be  one 
of  unusual  taste !" 

Having  hastily  cut  the  leaves,  she  shaded  her  brow 
with  one  hand,  grasped  the  charming  book  with  the 
other,  as  though  it  were  polished  gold  and  she  a  miser, 
and  commenced,  in  the  phrase  of  enthusiastic  novel 
readers,  to  devour  the  pages. 

Rapidly  did  her  eyes  run  over  the  first  chapter.  But 
then — she  turned  her  head  with  a  quick,  impatient  move 
ment.  Did  she  not  hear  a  noise  in  the  cradle  ?  Yes,  a 
little  hand  was  lifted  from  beneath  the  cover. 

"  Too  bad,  too  bad ;  he'll  be  awake  all  the  evening 

'  *  O 

now ;"  and  she  glided  with  a  noiseless  step  to  the  child's 
side. 

But  the  eyelids  were  still  closed  ;  the  measured  breath 
of  slumber  stole  gently  from  the  half-parted  lips,  and 
the  offending  hand  rested  in  quiet  beauty  upon  the  soft 
neck. 

It  was  a  fair,  sweet  babe,  whose  little  heart  had 
throbbed  but  one  short  summer.  As  it  lay  there,  the 
spell  of  sinless  sleep  upon  its  brow,  it  seemed  the  type 
of  all  things  pure  and  blest.  Eden,  with  all  its  loveli 
ness,  never  charmed  the  gaze  of  Eve  with  such  a  pic 
ture.  The  holier  feelings  of  the  mother's  breast  were 
touched,  as  if  by  a  hand  from  heaven.  The  angel  began 
to  trouble  the  deep  waters  of  her  soul  as  she  stood  be 
side  that  cradle-bed ;  and  when  after  a  vigil  of  several 


228          THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL 

moments,  the  child  still  sleeping,  she  bent  her  head  and 
imprinted  upon  its  lips  the  kiss  of  love,  the  healing 
wave  flowed  for  an  instant,  then  ebbed,  for  the  novel 
was  not  yet  read. 

Resuming  her  seat,  Mrs.  Lee  again  took  her  book. 
But  the  fiction  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of  its  fascina 
tion.  For  some  time  her  glance  vacillated  between  its 
finely  printed  pages  and  her  heaped-up  basket.  She 
even  put  on  her  thimble  and  threaded  a  needle.  But  a 
moonlight  scene,  where,  in  a  honeysuckle  bower,  the 
noble  lover  draws  a  trembling  girl  to  his  bosom,  and 
pours  into  her  ears  the  bewitching  words  of  wild  court 
ship,  acted  like  magic  on  the  reader's  mind,  and  she 
became  absorbed  in  the  glowing  picture. 

The  second  and  third  chapters  were  soon  perused, 
and  she  Avas  entering  with  interest  upon  the  fourth, 
when  a  sweet  /voice  from  the  trundle-bed  called  out, 
"  Mother,  mother,  mother  !" 

Her  ear  caught  the  sound  ;  but  it  made  no  impression 
upon  her  mind  till  it  had  been  several  times  repeated ; 
then  turning  quickly,  in  no  very  gentle  voice,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  What  do  you  want,  Lizzie  ?  I  thought  you 
were  asleep  an  hour  ago." 

"  I  have  been  asleep,  mother,"  answered  the  daughter, 
in  a  timid  tone.  "I  waked  up  because" — 

"  Because  you  were  a  naughty  girl  and  wanted  to 
plagus  me.  Strange  that  I  can't  have  a  minute's  com 
fort,"  ami  going  hastily  to  the  bed,  she  drew  the  clothes 
around  the  child,  and  bade  her  shut  her  eyes  and  go  to 
sleep. 


THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL.          229 

"  I  want  a  drink,  mother ;  I  can't  sleep,  I  am  so 
thirsty." 

The  mother  looked  around  ;  there  was  neither  pitcher 
nor  glass  in  the  room. 

"  It's  always  just  so.  I  never  forget  to  bring  water 
but  you  are  sure  to  want  some.  Why  didn't  you  drink 
last  night,  when  I  had  a  whole  pitcher  full  for  you?" 

"  I  wasn't  thirsty  last  night.  Do  please  give  me  a 
Irink,  and  I'll  go  right  to  sleep." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  run  clown  stairs  to-night ;  so  just 
turn  over  and  shut  your  eyes." 

And  she  sat  down  again  to  her  novel,  leaving  the 
thirsty  child  to  its  thoughts,  or  dreams,  as  the  case 
might  be. 

Lizzie,  as  she  said,  wanted  a  drink  very  much,  and 
so  she  turned  and  tossed,  and  tried  to  think  of  every 
thing  but  water,  while  that  was  all  she  could  think  of. 

"  If  I  only  had  one  little  swallow,"  murmured  she  to 
herself,  "I  think  I  could  get  along  till  morning."  But 
she  might  as  Avell  have  wanted  a  pailful ;  there  was  no 
prospect  of  getting  any.  By-and-by,  she  spied  upon 
the  stove  hearth  a  tin  cup.  "  The  baby's  inilk  !"  said 
she.  "  Perhaps  that  would  be  as  good  as  water.  I 
wonder  if  mother  would  let  me  have  it?"  She  looked 
toward  the  parent.  She  was  absorbed  in  her  book  ;  her 
very  being  seemed  bound  up  in  it.  The  child  knew  too 
much  to  disturb  her. 

But  perhaps  she  could  get  it  without  disturbing  her 
aiother,  and  she  did  want  a  drink  so  much.  She  hesi 
tated  awhile,  then  crept  silently  out  of  bed,  stole  to  the 
cup,  seized  it  eagerly,  and  took  a  swallow.  But  it 


230          THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL. 

tasted  better  than  she  thought  it  would,  and  her  thirst 
was  such  thai  she  drained  it.  Alarmed  at  what  she 
had  done,  she  was  in  such  haste  to  put  it  back  that  it 
slipped  from  her  trembling  hand,  bounding  against  the 
stove,  falling  on  the  hearth,  and  rolling  thence  on  tha 
carpet. 

"  Why,  Lizzie  Lee  !"  screamed  the  mother,  dropping 
her  book  and  running  to  the  child.  "  I  should  like  to 
know  what  you've  been  about ;  spilt  all  the  baby's  milk, 
I'll  warrant,"  as  she  took  up  the  empty  cup.  Then  see 
ing  the  carpet  was  quite  dry,  she  seized  Lizzie  by  the 
shoulder,  exclaiming  in  an  angry  voice,  "  What  have 
you  done  with  the  milk,  you  little  plague  ?  Tell  me  this 
minute  what's  become  of  it?" 

"I  was  so  thirsty,  mother,"  answered  the  child  in  a 
pleading  voice,  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  "  I  could  not 
go  to  sleep,  and  so" — 

"  So  you  drank  it,  did  you  !  you  naughty  girl,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Lee  with  increased  vehemence  of  tone ; 
"  drank  it,  and  I  haven't  another  drop  of  milk  in  the 
house.  I'll  teach  you  to  do  such  things;"  and  her 
hand  came  down  heavily  upon  the  shrinking  shoulder, 
one  !  two  !  three  times  !  A  wild  scream  of  pain  burst 
from  the  child's  lips.  Another  arid  another,  and  angry 
and  excited  as  the  mother  was,  they  pierced  her  heart 
with  deep  arrows. 

The  noise  startled  another  child  who  slept  in  the  same 
bed  with  Lizzie.  Frightened  from  its  sound  slumbers, 
it  shrieked  in  alarm,  when  the  babe,  waking  at  the  same 
moment,  joined  its  voice  with  the  others,  not  in  harmony. 


THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL.         231 

but  in  discords  which  echo  so  often  in  the  nursery,  stun 
ning  the  ear  and  bewildering  the  brain. 

With  quick  steps,  quick  hands,  and  a  softened  tone, 
Mrs.  Lee  strove  to  calm  the  tempest  she  had  raised. 
Lizzie's  cries  soon  merged  into  piteous  sobs,  but  Willie 
and  the  babe  continued  their  loud  screams,  till  the 
mother,  in  her  perplexity,  would  fain  have  wrung  her 
hands  and  sat  down  and  wept  with  them.  She  ran 
from  one  to  the  other,  soothing,  singing,  and  caressing. 
But  they  would  not  hush  in  the  least,  till,  as  a  last 
resource,  she  took  the  baby  in  one  arm,  Willie  in  the 
other,  and,  thus  burthened,  paced  the  chamber.  Her 
limbs  ached  with  the  effort,  her  voice  grew  plaintive, 
her  heart  sad  and  sore  with  the  upbraidings  of  con 
science  which  she  had  striven  too  long  to  stifle.  She 
breathed  sweet  music  in  the  ears  of  the  little  sobbing 
creatures  who  struggled  in  her  arms,  but  not  a  word  of 
anger  escaped  from  her  pale  lips.  She  felt  she  was  the 
guilty  cause  of  all  her  trouble.  A  little  forethought,  a 
little  self-denial,  a  little  discipline  of  temper,  and  all  had 
been  well. 

It  was  a  long  time  ere  she  ventured  to  sit  down  and 
rock  the  children,  and  they  did  not  soon  close  their  eyes 
in  sleep.  They  would  start  and  scream,  then  draw  back 
such  long  sighs,  that  the  tears  which  trembled  in  the 
mother's  eyes  would  flood  her  cheeks. 

When,  at  last,  they  rested  in  a  sweet,  calm  slumber, 
she  was  at  a  loss  how  to  put  them  down  to  release  her 
weary  arms,  without  the  risk  of  new  confusion.  There 
was  no  one  whom  she  could  call  upon  for  aid.  No  one  ? 
Yes,  there  was  the  little  trembling  creature  whose  tender 


232         THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  NOVEL. 

skin  still  smarted  with  the  chastisement  of  an  angry 
mother. 

"Lizzie,"  called  the  mother,  after  a  long  while,  in  a 
very  low  gentle  tone. 

The  child  was  quickly  beside  her. 

"  Bring  your  little  chair,  and  sit  down  close  to  me 
and  see  if  you  can  draw  the  baby  on  your  lap  without 
waking  him." 

Lizzie  did  as  directed,  and  the  babe  was  soon  clasped 
to  her  heart,  her  lips  breathing  childish  words  of  affec 
tion  over  its  unconscious  form. 

Very  carefully  did  Mrs.  Lee  lay  down  her  little  Wil 
lie,  and  for  some  moments  she  sat  beside  him  smoothing 
gently  his  fair  brow,  twining  his  golden  locks  around  her 
fingers,  and  pressing  the  softest  and  sweetest  of  kisses 
upon  his  still  lips. 

Then  going  to  Lizzie,  she  took  from  her  arms  the 
sleeping  babe,  and  placing  it  in  the  cradle,  bent  over  it, 
whispering  the  fondest  terms  of  endearment. 

Sitting  down  beside  it,  she  covered  her  face,  and 
thought  grew  busy.  By-and-by,  Lizzie  stole  quietly  to 
the  chair,  knelt  beside  it,  and  buried  her  head  in  her 
mother's  lap.  Mrs.  Lee's  hands  toyed  with  the  soft 
brown  curls  that  fell  over  it  in  such  rich  profusion,  and 
several  times  pushed  them  off  the  forehead,  when  the 
child  felt  the  mute  pressure  of  her  lips.  For  some  time 
both  were  silent.  At  length  Lizzie  looked  timidly  up, 
Buying,  in  a  touching  voice, 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  mother,  I  made  you  so  much  trou 
ble.  I'll  try  and  never  be  thirsty  again  when  you  are 
reading." 


THE    CHILDREN    AND    THE    NOVEL.  233 

The  mother's  heart  started  ;  she  drew  the  child  to  her 
bosom,  embraced  it  fondly,  closely,  as  though  she  thought 
by  pressure  to  still  its  painful  throbbings.  Then  bear 
ing  her  to  the  bed,  she  set  her  down  and  hastily  left 
the  room.  She  soon  returned,  a  glass  of  water  in  her 
hand.  "Thank  you,  mother,"  said  Lizzie,  when  she 
had  quenched  her  thirst,  "  you  will  have  a  good  time  to 
read  now,  for  I  shall  go  right  to  sleep." 

With  her  eyes  brimful  of  tears,  the  mother  bent  over 
her  child  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  And  Lizzie, 
feeling  that  she  was  quite  forgiven,  and  not  dreaming 
that  she  had  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning, 
threw  her  arms  around  her  parent's  neck,  and  gave  back 
kiss  for  kiss ;  then  nestling  on  the  warm  pillow  of  her 
little  brother,  she  closed  her  weary  eyes  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  sound  asleep. 

For  a  long  while  the  mother  knelt  beside  the  low 
couch,  and  when  she  rose  and  sat  down  again  by  the 
stand,  she  left  the  novel  Avhere  she  had  dropped  it,  but 
took  from  her  basket  an  unfinished  doll,  and  with  rapid 
fingers  plied  her  needle. 

It  was  long  ere  she  placed  her  head  upon  her  pillow. 
When  she  did,  the  doll,  completed  and  neatly  dressed, 
lay  by  the  side  of  Lizzie ;  the  novel,  half-read,  upon  the 
Lehigh  in  the  stove,  a  handful  of  light  ashes. 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

MRS.  JAMESON  has  given  us  the  following  deeply  inter 
esting  revelation  of  her  childhood.  There  are  lessons  in 
it  which  every  parent  should  lay  to  heart.  She  says : — 

We  are  all  interested  in  this  great  question  of  popu 
lar  education  ;  but  I  see  others  much  more  sanguine 
than  I  am.  They  hope  for  some  immediate  good  result 
from  all  that  is  thought,  written,  spoken  on  the  subject 
day  after  day.  I  see  such  results  as  possible,  probable, 
but  far,  far  off.  All  this  talk  is  of  systems  and  me 
thods,  institutions,  school-houses,  schoolmasters,  school 
mistresses,  school-books ;  the  ways  and  the  means  by 
which  we  are  to  instruct,  inform,  man;ige,  mould,  regulate, 
that  which  lies  in  most  cases  beyond  our  reach — the  spirit 
sent  from  God.  What  do  we  know  of  the  mystery  of 
child-nature,  child-life?  What  indeed  do  we  know  of  any 
life  ?  All  life  we  acknowledge  to  be  an  awful  mystery, 
but  child-life  we  treat  as  if  it  were  no  mystery  whatever 
— just  so  much  material  placed  in  our  hands  to  be  fash 
ioned  to  a  certain  form,  according  to  our  will  or  our 
prejudices — fitted  to  certain  purposes,  according  to  our 
notions  of  expediency.  Till  we  know  how  to  reverence 
childhood  we  shall  do  no  good.  Educators  commit  the 
same  mistake  with  regard  to  childhood  that  theologians 
commit  with  regard  to  our  present  earthly  existence  ; 
thinking  of  it,  treating  of  it,  as  of  little  value  or  signi 
ficance  in  itself,  only  transient,  and  preparatory  to  some 
condition  of  being  which  is  to  follow — as  if  it  were 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.          235 

something  separate  from  us  and  to  be  left  behind  us  as 
the  creature  casts  its  skin.  But  as  in  the  sight  of  God 
this  life  is  also  something  for  its  own  sake,  so  in  the  esti 
mation  of  Christ,  childhood  was  something  for  its  own 
sake, — something  holy  and  beautiful  in  itself,  and  dear 
to  him.  lie  saw  it  not  merely  as  the  germ  of  something 
to  grow  out  of  it,  but  as  perfect  and  lovely  in  itself  as  the 
flower  which  precedes  the  fruit.  We  misunderstand  child 
hood,  and  we  misuse  it ;  we  delight  in  it,  and  we  pamper 
it ;  we  spoil  it  ingeniously,  we  neglect  it  sinfully ;  at  the 
best  we  trifle  with  it  as  a  plaything  which  we  can  pull 
to  pieces  and  put  together  at  pleasure — ignorant,  reck 
less,  presumptuous  that  we  are  ! 

And  if  we  are  perpetually  making  the  grossest  mis 
takes  in  the  physical  practical  management  of  childhood, 
how  much. more  in  regard  to  what  is  spiritual!  What 
do  we  know  of  that  which  lies  in  the  minds  of  children  ? 
we  know  only  what  we  put  there.  The  world  of  in 
stincts,  perceptions,  experiences,  pleasures,  and  pains, 
lying  there  without  self-consciousness, — sometimes  help 
lessly  mute,  sometimes  so  imperfectly  expressed,  that 
we  quite  mistake  the  manifestation — what  do  we  know 
of  all  this  ?  How  shall  we  come  at  the  understanding 
of  it?  The  child  lives,  and  does  not  contemplate  its 
own  life.  It  can  give  no  account  of  that  inward,  busy, 
perpetual  activity  of  the  growing  faculties  and  feelings 
which  it  is  of  so  much  importance  that  we  should  know. 
To  lead  children  by  questionings  to  think  about  their 
own  identity,  or  observe  their  own  feelings,  is  to  teach 
them  to  be  artificial.  To  waken  self-consciousness  be 
fore  you  awaken  conscience,  is  the  beginning  of  incal- 


236          A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

culable  mischief.  Introspection  is  always,  as  a  habit, 
unhealthy  :  introspection  in  childhood  fatally  so.  How 
shall  we  come  at  a  knowledge  of  life  such  as  it  is  when 
it  first  gushes  from  its  mysterious  fountain  head  ?  We 
cannot  reascend  the  stream.  We  all,  however  we  may 
remember  the  external  scenes  lived  through  in  our  in 
fancy,  either  do  not,  or  cannot  consult  that  part  of  our 
nature  which  remains  indissolubly  connected  with  the 
inward  life  of  that  time.  We  so  forget  it  that  we  know 
not  how  to  deal  with  the  child-nature  when  it  comes 
under  our  power.  We  seldom  reason  about  children 
from  natural  laws,  or  psychological  data.  Unconsciously 
we  confound  our  matured  experience  with  our  memory  : 
we  attribute  to  children  what  is  not  possible,  exact  from 
them  what  is  impossible ; — ignore  many  things  which 
the  child  has  neither  words  to  express,  nor  the  will  nor 
the  power  to  manifest.  The  quickness  with  which  child 
ren  perceive,  the  keenness  with  which  they  suffer,  the 
tenacity  with  which  they  remember,  I  have  never  seen 
fully  appreciated.  What  misery  we  cause  to  children, 
what  mischief  we  do  them,  by  bringing  our  own  minds, 
habits,  artificial  prejudices  and  senile  experiences,  to 
bear  on  their  young  life,  and  cramp  and  overshadow  it 
— it  is  fearful  ! 

Of  all  the  wrongs  and  anomalies  that  afflict  our  earth, 
a  sinful  childhood,  a  suffering  childhood,  are  among  the 
worst. 

0,  ye  men  !  who  sit  in  committees,  and  are  called  upon 
to  legislate  for  children, — for  children  who  are  the  off 
spring  of  diseased  or  degenerate  humanity,  or  the  vic 
tims  of  a  yet  more  diseased  society, — do  you,  when  you 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.          237 

take  evidence  from  jailors,  and  policemen,  and  parish 
schoolmasters,  and  doctors  of  divinity,  do  you  ever  call 
up,  also,  thejwise  physician,  the  thoughtful  physiologist, 
the  experienced  mother  ?  You  have  accumulated  facts, 
great  blue  hooks  full  of  facts,  hut  till  you  know  in  what 
fixed  and  uniform  principles  of  nature  to  seek  their  solu 
tion,  your  facts  remain  a  dead  letter. 

I  say  nothing  here  of  teaching,  though  very  few  in 
truth  understand  that  lowest  part  of  our  duty  to  child 
ren.  Men,  it  is  generally  allowed,  teach  better  than  wo 
men,  because  they  have  been  better  taught  the  things  they 
teach.  Women  train  better  than  men,  because  of  their 
quick  intinctive  perceptions  and  sympathies,  and  greater 
tenderness  and  patience.  In  schools  and  in  families  I 
would  have  some  things  taught  by  men,  and  some  by 
women :  but  we  will  here  put  aside  the  art,  the  act  of 
tcachin^:  we  will  turn  aside  from  the  droves  of  child- 

o 

rcn  in  national  schools  and  reformatory  asylums,  and 
turn  to  the  individual  child,  brought  up  within  the 
guarded  circle  of  a  home  or  a  select  school,  watched  by 
an  intelligent,  a  conscientious  influence.  How  shall  we 
deal  with  that  spirit  which  has  come  out  of  Nature's 
hands  unless  we  remember  what  we  were  ourselves  in 
the  past?  What  sympathy  can  we  have  with  that  state 
of  being  which  we  regard  as  immature,  so  long  as  we 
commit  the  double  mistake  of  sometimes  attributing  to 
children  motives  which  could  only  spring  from  our  adult 
experience,  and  sometimes  denying  to  them  the  same 
intuitive  tempers  and  feelings  which  actuate  and  agitate 
our  ina'vurer  life  ?  We  do  not  sufficiently  consider  that 
our  life  ia  not  made  up  of  separate  parts,  but  is  one — is 


238  A   REVELATION   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

a  progressive  whole.  When  we  talk  of  leaving  our  child 
hood  behind  us,  we  might  as  well  say  that  the  river  flow 
ing  onward  to  the  sea  had  left  the  fountain  behind. 

I  will  here  put  together  some  recollections  of  my  own 
child-life ;  not  because  it  was  in  any  respect  an  excep 
tional  or  remarkable  existence,  but  for  a  reason  exactly 
*;he  reverse,  because  it  was  like  that  of  many  children  ; 
at  least  I  have  met  with  many  children  who  throve  or 
suffered  from  the  same  or  similar  unseen  causes  even 
under  external  conditions  and  management  every  way 
dissimilar.  Facts,  therefore,  which  can  be  relied  on, 
may  be  generally  useful  as  hints  towards  a  theory  of 
conduct.  What  I  shall  say  here  shall  be  simply  the 
truth  so  far  as  it  goes ;  not  something  between  the  false 
and  the  true,  garnished  for  effect, — not  something  half- 
remembered,  half-imagined, — but  plain,  absolute  matter 
of  fact. 

No ;  certainly  I  was  not  an  extraordinary  child.  I 
have  had  something  to  do  with  children,  and  have  met 
with  several  more  remarkable  for  quickness  of  talent, 
and  precocity  of  feeling.  If  anything  in  particular,  I 
believe  I  was  particularly  naughty, — at  least  so  it  was 
said  twenty  times  a  day.  But  looking  back,  now,  I  do 
not  think  I  Avas  particular  even  in  this  respect ;  I  per 
petrated  not  more  than  the  usual  amount  of  mischief — 
so  called — which  every  lively,  active  child  perpetrates 
between  five  and  ten  years  old.  I  had  the  usual  desire 
to  know,  and  the  usual  dislike  to  learn  ;  the  usual  love 
of  fairy  tales,  and  hatred  of  French  exercises.  But  not 
of  what  I  learned,  but  of  what  I  did  not  learn ;  not  of 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.          239 

what  they  taught  me,  but  of  what  they  could  not  teach 
me ;  not  of  what  was  open,  apparent,  manageable,  but 
of  the  under  current,  the  hidden,  the  unmanaged  or 
unmanageable,  I  have  to  speak,  and  you,  my  friend,  to 
hear  and  turn  to  account,  if  you  will,  and  how  you  will. 
As  we  grow  old,  the  experiences  of  infancy  come  back 
upon  us  with  a  strange  vividness.  There  is  a  period  when 
the  overflowing,  tumultuous  life  of  our  youth  rises  up 
between  us  and  those  first  years ;  but  as  the  torrent 
subsides  in  its  bed,  we  can  look  across  the  impassable 
gulf  to  that  haunted  fairy  land  which  we  shall  never 
more  approach,  and  never  more  forget ! 

In  memory  I  can  go  back  to  a  very  early  age.  I 
perfectly  remember  being  sung  to  sleep,  and  can  remem 
ber  even  the  tune  which  was  sung  to  me — blessings  on 
the  voice  that  sang  it !  I  was  an  affectionate,  but  not, 
as  I  now  think,  a  lovable  or  an  attractive  child.  I 
did  not,  like  the  little  Mozart,  ask  of  every  one  around 
me,  "  Do  you  love  me  ?"  The  instinctive  question  was, 
rather,  "Can  I  love  you?"  Yet  certainly  I  was  not 
more  than  six  years  old  when  I  suffered  from  the  fear  of 
not  being  loved  where  I  had  attached  myself,  and  from 
the  idea  that  another  was  preferred  before  me,  such 
anguish  as  had  nearly  killed  me.  Whether  those  around 
me  regarded  it  as  a  fit  of  ill-temper,  or  a  fit  of  illness, 
I  do  not  know.  I  could  not  then  have  given  a  name  to 
the  pang  that  fevered  me.  I  knew  not  the  cause,  but 
never  forgot  the  suffering.  It  left  a  deeper  impression 
than  childish  passions  usually  do ;  and  the  recollection 
was  so  far  salutary,  that  in  after  life  I  guarded  myself 


240  A   REVELATION   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

against  the  approaches  of  that  hateful,  deformed,  ago 
nizing  thing  which  men  call  jealousy,  as  I  would  from 
an  attack  of  cramp  or  cholera.  If  such  self-knowledge 
has  not  saved  me  from  the  pain,  at  least  it  has  saved  me 
from  the  demoralizing  effects  of  the  passion,  by  a  whole 
some  terror,  and  even  a  sort  of  disgust. 

With  a  good  temper  there  was  the  capacity  of  strong, 
deep,  silent  resentment,  and  a  vindictive  spirit  of 
rather  a  peculiar  kind.  I  recollect  that  when  one  of 
those  set  over  me  inflicted  what  then  appeared  a  most 
horrible  injury  and  injustice,  the  thoughts  of  vengeance 
haunted  my  fancy  for  months ;  but  it  was  an  inverted 
sort  of  vengeance.  I  imagined  the  house  of  my  enemy 
on  fire,  and  rushed  through  the  flames  to  rescue  her. 
She  was  drowning,  and  I  leaped  into  the  deep  water  to 
draw  her  forth.  She  was  pining  in  prison,  and  I  forced 
bars  and  bolts  to  deliver  her.  If  this  were  magna 
nimity,  it  was  not  the  less  vengeance  ;  for,  observe,  I 
always  fancied  evil,  and  shame,  and  humiliation  to  my 
adversary;  to  myself  the  role  of  superiority  and  grati 
fied  pride.  For  several  years  this  sort  of  burning  re 
sentment  against  wrong  done  to  myself  and  others,- 
though  it  took  no  mean  or  cruel  form,  was  a  source  of 
intense,  untold  suffering.  No  one  was  aware  of  it.  I 
was  left  to  settle  it ;  and  my  mind  righted  itself  I  hardly 
know  how :  not  certainly  by  religious  influences — they 
passed  over  my  mind,  and  did  not  at  the  time  sink  into 
it, — and  as  for  earthly  counsel  or  comfort,  I  never  had 
either  when  most  needed.  And  as  it  fared  with  me  then, 
eo  it  has  been  in  after  life  ;  so  it  has  been,  wust  be,  with 
all  those  who,  in  fighting  out  alone  the  pitched  battle 


A   REVELATION   OF   CHILDHOOD.  241 

between  principle  and  passion,  will  accept  no  interven 
tion  between  the  infinite  within  them  and  the  infinite 
above  them ;  so  it  has  been,  must  be,  with  all  stroi  £ 
natures.  Will  it  be  said  that  victory  in  the  strugg  .e 
brings  increase  of  strength?  It  may  be  so  with  some 
who  survive  the  contest ;  but  then  how  many  sink  !  how 
many  are  crippled  morally  for  life  !  how  many,  strength 
ened  in  some  particular  faculties,  suffer  in  losing  the 
liarnony  of  the  character  as  a  whole  !  This  is  one  of 
the  points  in  which  the  matured  mind  may  help  the 
cl-ildish  nature  at  strife  with  itself.  It  is  impossible  to 
Bf  y  how  far  this  sort  of  vindictiveness  might  have  penc- 
ti  ited  r.nd  hardened  into  the  character,  if  I  had  been  of 
a  timid  or  retiring  nature.  It  was  expelled  at  last  by 
no  outer  influences,  but  by  a  growing  sense  of  power 
and  self-reliance. 

In  regard  to  truth — always  such  a  difficulty  in  educa 
tion, — I  certainly  had,  as  a  child,  and  like  most  child 
ren,  confused  ideas  about  it.  I  had  a  more  distinct  and 
absolute  idea  of  honour  than  of  truth, — a  mistake  into 
which  our  conventional  morality  leads  those  who  edu 
cate  and  those  who  are  educated.  I  knew  very  well,  in 
a  general  way,. that  to  tell  a  lie  was  wicked;  to  lie  for 
my  own  profit  or  pleasure,  or  to  the  hurt  of  others,  was, 
according  to  my  infant  code  of  morals,  worse  than 
wicked — it  was  dishonourable.  But  I  had  no  compunc 
tion  about  telling  fiction  s  ;  inventing  scenes  and  circum 
stances  which  I  related  as  real,  and  with  a  keen  sense 
of  triumphant  enjoyment  in  seeing  the  listener  taken  in 
by  a  moat  artful  and  ingenious  coacatenation  of  impos- 


'242  A    REVELATION   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

sibilities.  In  this  respect  "  Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto, 
that  liar  of  the  first  magnitude,"  was  nothing  in  com 
parison  to  me.  I  must  have  been  twelve  years  old  be 
fore  my  conscience  was  first  awakened  up  to  a  sense  of 
the  necessity  of  truth  as  a  principle,  as  well  as  its  holi 
ness  as  a  virtue.  Afterwards,  having  to  set  right  the 
minds  of  others  cleared  by  my  own  mind  on  this  and 
some  other  important  points. 

1  do  not  think  I  was  naturally  obstinate,  but  remem 
ber  going  without  food  all  day,  and  being  sent  hungry 
and  exhausted  to  bed,  because  I  would  not  do  some 
trifling  thing  required  of  me.  I  think  it  was  to  recite 
some  lines  I  knew  by  heart.  I  was  punished  ?-?  wilfully 
obstinate  :  but  what  no  one  knew  then,  and  what  I  know 
now  as  the  fact,  was,  that  after  refusing  to  do  what  was 
required,  and  bearing  anger  and  threats  in  consequence, 
I  lost  the  power  to  do  it.  I  became  stone  :  the  will 
was  petrified,  and  I  absolutely  could  not  comply.  They 
might  have  hacked  me  in  pieces  before  my  lips  could 
have  unclosed  to  utterance.  The  obstinacy  was  not  in 
the  mind,  but  on  the  nerves ;  and  I  am  persuaded  that 
what  AVC  call  obstinacy  in  children,  and  grown-up  people, 
too,  is  often  something  of  this  kind,  and  that  it  may  be 
increased  by  mismanagement,  by  persistence,  or  what  is 
called  firmness  in  the  controlling  power,  into  disease,  or 
something  near  to  it. 

There  was  in  my  childish  mind  another  cause  of  suf 
fering  besides  those  I  have  mentioned,  less  acute,  but 
more  permanent  and  always  unacknowledged.  It  was  fear 


A   REVELATION    OP   CHILDHOOD.  243 

— fear  of  darkness  and  supernatural  influences.  As 
long  as  I  can  remember  anything,  I  remember  these 
horrors  of  my  infancy.  How  they  had  been  awakened 
I  do  not  know  ;  they  were  never  revealed.  I  had  heard 
other  children  ridiculed  for  such  fears,  and  held  my 
peace.  At  first  these  haunting,  thrilling,  stifling  terrors 
were  vague  ;  afterwards  the  form  varied  ;  but  one  of 
the  most  permanent  was  the  ghost  in  Hamlet.  There 
was  a  volume  of  Shakspeare  lying  about,  in  which  was 
an  engraving  I  have  not  seen  since,  but  it  remains  dis 
tinct  in  my  mind  as  a  picture.  On  one  side  stood  Ham 
let  with  his  hair  on  end,  literally  "  like  quills  upon  the" 
fretful  porcupine,"  and  one  hand  with  all  the  fingers 
outspread.  On  the  other  strided  the  ghost,  encased  in 
armour  with  nodding  plumes ;  one  finger  pointing  for 
wards,  and  all  surrounded  with  a  supernatural  light.  0, 
that  spectre  !  for  three  years  it  followed  me  up  and 
down  the  dark  staircase,  or  stood  by  my  bed :  only  the 
blessed  light  had  power  to  exorcise  it.  How  it  was  that 
I  knew,  while  I  trembled  and  quaked,  that  it  was  un 
real,  never  cried  out,  never  expostulated,  never  con 
fessed,  I  do  not  know.  The  figure  of  Apollyon  looming 
over  Christian,  which  I  had  found  in  an  old  edition  of 
the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  was  also  a  great  torment. 
But  worse,  perhaps,  were  certain  phantasms  without 
shape, — things  like  the  vision  in  Job, — "  A  spirit  passed 
before  my  face  ;  it  stood  still,  but  I  could  not  discern  the 
form  thereof:" — and  if  not  intelligible  voices,  there 
were  strange  unaccountable  sounds  filling  the  air  around 
with  a  sort  of  mysterious  life.  In  daylight  I  was  not 
only  fearless,  but  audacious,  inclined  to  defy  all  power 


244  A   REVELATION   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

and  brave  all  danger, — that  is,  all  danger  I  could  see. 
I  remember  volunteering  to  lead  the  way  through  a  herd 
of  cattle  (among  which  was  a  dangerous  bull,  the  terror 
of  the  neighbourhood)  armed  only  with  a  little  stick  ; 
but  first  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  fervently.  In  the 
ghastly  night  I  never  prayed ;  terror  stilled  prayer. 
These  visionary  sufferings,  in  some  form  or  other,  pur 
sued  me  till  I  was  nearly  twelve  years  old.  If  I  had 
not  possessed  a  strong  constitution  and  a  strong  under 
standing,  which  rejected  and  contemned  my  own  fears, 
even  while  they  shook  me,  I  had  been  destroyed.  How 
much  weaker  children  suffer  in  this  way  I  have  since 
known ;  and  have  known  how  to  bring  them  help  and 
strength,  through  sympathy  and  knowledge,  the  sym 
pathy  that  soothes  and  does  not  encourage — the  know 
ledge  that  dispels  and  does  not  suggest  the  evil. 

People  in  general,  even  those  who  have  been  much, 
interested  in  education,  are  not  aware  of  the  sacred 
duty  of  truth,  exact  truth  in  their  intercourse  with 
children.  Limit  what  you  tell  them  according  to  the 
measure  of  their  faculties;  but  let  what  you  say  be  the 
truth.  Accuracy  not  merely  as  to  fact,  but  well-consi 
dered  accuracy  in  the  use  of  words,  is  essential  with 
children.  I  have  read  some  wise  book  on  the  treatment 
of  the  insane,  in  which  absolute  veracity  and  accuracy 
in  speaking  is  prescribed  as  &  curative  principle;  and 
deception  for  any  purpose  is  deprecated  as  almost  fatal 
to  the  health  of  the  patient.  Now,  it  is  a  good  sani 
tary  principle  that  what  is  curative  is  preventive ;  and 
that  an  unhealthy  state  of  mind,  leading  to  madness, 
may,  in  some  organizations,  be  induced  by  that  sort  of 


A   REVELATION   OF   CHILDHOOD.  245 

uncertainty  and  perplexity  which  grows  up  where  the 
mind  has  not  been  accustomed  to  truth  in  its  external 
relations.  It  is  like  breathing  for  a  continuance  an  im 
pure  or  confined  air. 

Of  the  mischief  that  may  be  done  to  a  childish  mind 
by  a  falsehood  uttered  in  thoughtless  gayety,  I  remem 
ber  an  absurd  and  yet  a  painful  instance.  A  visiter 
was  turning  over  for  a  little  girl  some  prints,  one  of 
which  represented  an  Indian  widow  springing  into  the 
fire  kindled  for  the  funeral  pile  of  her  husband.  It  was 
thus  explained  to  the  child,  who  asked  innocently  whe 
ther,  if  her  father  died,  her  mother  would  be  burned  ? 
The  person  to  whom  the  question  was  addressed,  a  lively, 
amiable  woman,  was  probably  much  amused  by  the 
question,  and  answered  giddily,  "  Oh,  of  course, — cer 
tainly!"  and  was  believed  implicitly.  But  thenceforth, 
for  many  weary  months,  the  mind  of  that  child  waa 
haunted  and  tortured  by  the  image  of  her  mother 
springing  into  the  devouring  flames,  and  consumed  by 
fire,  with  all  the  accessories  of  the  picture,  particularly 
the  drums  beating  to  drown  her  cries.  In  a  weaker 
organization,  the  results  might  have  been  permanent 
and  serious.  But  to  proceed. 

These  terrors  I  have  described  had  an  existence  ex 
ternal  to  myself:  I  had  no  power  over  them  to  shape 
them  by  my  will,  and  their  power  over  me  vanished 
gradually  before  a  more  dangerous  infatuation  —  the 
propensity  to  rcvery.  The  shaping  spirit  of  imagina 
tion  began  when  I  was  about  eight  or  nine  years  old  to 
haunt  my  inner  lite.  I  can  truly  say  that,  from  ten 
years  old  to  fourteen  or  fifteen,  I  lived  a  double  exist- 


A   REVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 

ence ;  one  outward,  linking  me  with  the  external  sensi 
ble  world,  the  other  inward,  creating  a  world  to  and  for 
itself,  conscious  to  itself  only.  I  carried  on  for  whole 
years  a  series  of  actions,  scenes,  and  adventures ;  one 
springing  out  of  another,  and  coloured  and  modified  by 
increasing  knowledge.  This  habit  grew  so  upon  me, 
that  there  were  moments — as  when  I  came  to  some 
crisis  in  my  imaginary  adventures,  Avhen  I  was  not 
more  awake  to  outward  things  than  in  sleep — scarcely 
took  cognisance  of  the  beings  around  me.  When  pun 
ished  for  idleness  by  being  placed  in  solitary  confine 
ment  (the  worst  of  all  punishments  for  children),  the 
intended  penance  was  nothing  less  than  a  delight  and 
an  emancipation,  giving  me  up  to  my  dreams.  I  had  a 
very  strict  and  very  accomplished  governess,  one  of  the 
cleverest  women  I  have  ever  met  with  in  my  life ;  but 
nothing  of  this  was  known  or  even  suspected  by  her, 
and  I  exulted  in  possessing  something  which  her  power 
could  not  reach.  My  reveries  were  my  real  life  :  it  was 
an  unhealthy  state  of  things. 

Those  who  are  engaged  in  the  training  of  children 
will  perhaps  pause  here.  It  may  be  said,  in  the  first 
place,  How  are  we  to  reach  those  recesses  of  the  inner 
life  which  the  God  who  made  us  keeps  from  every  eye 
but  his  own  ?  As  when  we  walk  over  the  field  in  spring 
we  are  aware  of  a  thousand  influences  and  processes  at 
work  of  which  we  have  no  exact  knowledge  or  clear 
perception,  yet  must  watch  and  use  accordingly ;  so  it 
is  with  education.  And  secondly,  it  may  be  asked,  if 
such  secret  processes  be  working  unconscious  mischief, 
where  is  the  remedy  ?  The  remedy  is  in  employment. 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.          247 

Then  the  mother  or  the  teacher  echoes  with  astonish 
ment,  "Employment!  the  child  is  employed  from  morn 
ing  till  night ;  she  is  learning  a  dozen  sciences  and 
languages ;  she  has  masters  and  lessons  for  every  hour 
of  every  day ;  with  her  pencil,  her  piano,  her  books, 
her  companions,  her  birds,  her  flowers ;  what  can  she 
want  more  ?"  An  energetic  child  even  at  a  very  early 
age,  and  yet  further  as  the  physical  organization  is  de 
veloped,  wants  something  more  and  something  better ; 
employment  which  shall  bring  with  it  the  bond  of  a 
higher  duty  than  that  which  centres  in  self  and  self- 
improvement  ;  employment  which  shall  not  merely  cul 
tivate  the  understanding,  but  strengthen  and  elevate 
the  conscience  ;  employment  for  the  higher  and  more 
generous  faculties ;  employment  addressed  to  the  sym 
pathies  ;  employment  which  has  the  aim  of  utility,  not 
pretended,  but  real,  obvious,  direct  utility.  A  girl  who 
as  a  mere  child  is  not  always  being  taught  or  being 
amused,  whose  mind  is  early  restrained  by  the  bond  of 
definite  duty,  and  thrown  out  of  the  limit  of  self,  will 
not  in  after  years  be  subject  to  fancies  that  disturb  or 
to  reveries  that  absorb,  and  the  present  and  the  actual 
will  have  that  power  they  ought  to  have  as  combined  in 
due  degree  with  desire  and  anticipation. 


DISCRIMINATION  WITH  RESPECT  TO  CHILDREN. 

FROM  a  most  excellent  volume,  entitled  "My  Mother, 
or  Recollections  of  Maternal  Influence,"  we  take  the 
following  plea  for  little  children,  and  particularly  com 
mend  it  to  the  attention  of  mothers. 

In  the  discipline  of  children,  as  in  all  government,  it 
is  important  to  estimate  offences  according  to  the  degree 
of  their  moral  obliquity.  Sins  of  ignorance,  or  of  in 
advertency,  of  which  children  commit  a  great  many,  are 
not  to  be  put  upon  a  par  with  deliberate  and  downright 
iniquities — even  though  the  former  he  more  mischievous 
in  their  effects  (putting  moral  tendencies  out  of  view) 
than  the  latter.  This  is  very  obvious,  but  not  always 
acted  on.  There  are  parents  who  will  be  more  disturbed 
by  an  accident  than  by  a  crime.  For  instance,  tht-y  will 
more  severely  reprove  or  punish  a  child  for  breaking  a 
looking-glass  or  a  piece  of  porcelain,  than  for  a  false 
hood  or  a  quarrel.  And  what  wonder  if  the  child  him 
self  learns  to  estimate  his  conduct  by  the  same  law. 
An  accident  alarms  him  for  the  consequences,  while  a 
moral  fault  does  not  distress  his  conscience.  So  much 
harm  done,  so  much  guilt;  or  rather,  so  much  ob- 
noxiousness  to  punishment,  or  blame.  An  unsuccessful 
fraud,  a  lie  from  which  no  mischief  follows,  a  fit  of 
anger  that  injures  nobody,  is  passed  over  by  the  parent 
as  though  it  were  venial ;  and  so  the  child's  Conscience, 
as  well  as  his  fears,  is  relieved.  Nor  is  that  the  worst 


RESPECT   TO    CHILDREN.  249 

His  conscience  is  mis-instructed.  His  moral  vision  is 
perverted,  and  a  false  standard  of  accountability  and 
character  given  him,  to  take  along  with  him  up  to  man 
hood,  and  through  life,  till  the  great  tribunal  of  another 
world  sets  him  right. 

You  will  often  see  a  child  attempt  to  forestall  the 
punishment  of  an  act  by  offering  the  parent  an  equiva 
lent.  "  How  much  did  the  broken  thing  cost?  I  will 
pay  you  for  it  out  of  the  money  I  have  got  laid  up." 
If  the  act  was  one  of  mere  heedlessness,  and  if  such 
hcedlcssness  was  habitual,  it  might  be  expedient  to  take 
the  money,  as  a  means  of  correcting  the  heedless  habit. 
The  heedlessness  of  servants  is  often  corrected  in  this 
way. 

My  mother  never  confounded  the  venial  with  the  cul 
pable  ;  and  I  remember  instances  where,  but  for  such 
discrimination  in  her,  I  might  have  smarted  for  doings 
that  only  incurred  some  gentle  reproof,  as  a  caution  for 
the  future.  To  give  you  an  example.  A  cousin  having 
come  to  see  us,  my  brother  and  me,  one  summer  day, 
we  amused  ourselves  a  while  with  observing  the  bees. 
The  wish  arose  in  our  hearts  that  we  had  some  of  their 
honey.  But  how  to  get  at  it  ?  At  length  it  was  sug 
gested  that,  if  a  hive  were  overturned,  they  would  fly 
away  and  leave  their  treasure  at  our  mercy.  "  Who 
will  upset  it,  then  ?"  We  were  all  quite  young,  myself 
the  youngest;  and  as  it  generally  happens  among  child 
ren  that  the  risks  and  responsibilities  are  put  upon  the 
youngest,  it  was  proposed  to  me  to  perform  the  feat.  I 
got  behind  a  hive,  therefore,  and  over  it  went;  and  you 
may  imagine  the  music  about  our  ears  that  ensued  there- 


250  DISCRIMINATION    WITH 

upon.  It  was  we  that  flew  away,  and  not  the  bees.  My 
mother  came  out,  exclaiming  at  the  hazard  and  the  mis 
chief,  and,  quite  contrary  to  our  expectation,  said  no 
more  about  it.  Our  very  ignorance  of  the  risk  we  ran 
(for  we  might  have  been  stung  to  death)  was  evidence 
to  her  that  we  had  no  culpable  intentions.  She  had  the 
courage  to  replace  the  hive,  greatly  to  the  contentment 
of  the  bees,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  do  so  without 
getting  stung.  Do  you  know  that  bees  have  a  special 
antipathy  to  some  people,  and  will  sting  them  almost 
unprovoked,  while  others  can  do  anything  with  them 
with  impunity?  She  was  one  of  their  favourites,  as  i\\cy 
were  hers. 

I  apprehend  that  we  often  do  injustice  to  the  feeling! 
and  behaviour  of  children  by  not  duly  considering  that 
they  are  children.  We  forget  how  inexperienced  thej' 
are,  how  excitable,  how  imaginative  and  impulsive.  A 
friend  of  ours,  in  a  letter,  the  other  day,  described  the 
high  excitement  of  her  little  daughter,  whom  she  waa 
about  to  take  with  her  on  a  visit  to  some  relations.  The 
child  ran  up  stairs  and  down,  flew  to  the  window,  as  if 
to  anticipate  the  carriage,  and  could  neither  eat  nor 
sleep.  "Is  it  possible,"  exclaims  the  mother,  "that  I 
was  ever  such  an  one?"  Yes,  madam,  you  were,  pro 
bably,  very  much  such  an  one. 

Mrs.  Howitt,  in  her  "Own  Story,"  tell  us  that  in  her 
childhood  she  saw  on  a  distant  hill-top  what  seemed  to 
her  "  an  immense  elephant,  or  monstrous  beast.  I  never 
saw  it  as  anything  else,"  she  says.  "  I  was  not  at  all 
afraid  of  it,  for  I  saw  it  every  day.  Once  I  said  to  a 
visiter,  when  in  a  very  talkative  humour,  that  a  great 


RESPECT   TO   CHILDREN.  251 

Mack  elephant  always  stood  opposite  to  our  house.  My 
parents  reproved  me  for  saying  that  which  was  not  true. 
I  stoutly  maintained  that  it  was  so;  my  firmness  seemed 
like  wilful  obstinacy,  and  I  was  reproved  severely;  but 
I  would  not  withdraw  my  assertion,  and  my  parents, 
grieving  to  see  such  perversity,  thought  it  much  better 
to  let  the  subject  drop.  This  affair  sunk  deep  in  my 
mind.  I  saw  the  elephant  every  day  as  plain  as  could 
be,  but  I  dared  not  recur  to  the  subject,  because  it  had 
given  so  much  displeasure.  The  fields,  however,  were 
bought ;  and  then  we  went  to  the  very  top  of  them ;  and 
as  I  ascended  the  hill,  my  elephant  was  gone,  there  was 
nothing  at  all  but  two  dark  Scotch  firs,  and  a  slender 
ash-tree  growing  beside  them.  [The  trunks  and  tops  cf 
the  firs  forming  the  legs  and  body  of  the  creature,  and 
the  ash  tree  head  and  proboscis,  aided  by  the  obscurity 
of  the  English  atmosphere,  which  is  much  less  clear  than 
ours.]  The  whole  thing  was  disenchanted ;  and  when  I 
returned  home,  though  I  still,  by  a  stretch  of  the  im 
agination,  could  see  the  elephant,  it  gradually  became 
three  distinct  trees.  I  never,  as  I  remember,  mentioned 
it  to  any  one,  not  even  to  Anna,  but  it  made  a  deep 
impression  on  my  mind,  and  has  given  me  great  charity 
with  the  exaggerations  and  even  the  apparent  falsehoods 
of  children." 

Truth,  strict  truth,  is  certainly  to  be  inculcated.  The 
slightest  deviations  from  it  should  alarm  us,  and  put 
us  upon  correcting  so  pernicious  a  habit.  There  can  be 
no  true  excellence  of  character — there  is  no  foundation 
for  it,  without  integrity.  Behold  an  Israelite  indeed,  in 
whom  is  no  guile.  Even  the  honest  exaggerations  of  a 


252  DISCRIMINATION   WITH 

lively  imagination  ought  to  be  checked,  lest  they  lead 
to  something  worse.  Yet,  mere  misapprehensions,  ele 
phants  made  out  of  trees,  are  not  to  be  treated  as  wilful 
whole-cloth  falsehoods. 

When  I  see  how  very  strict  and  strait-laced  some 
people  are  with  children,  I  feel  disposed  to  put  in  a 
plea  or  two  in  their  behalf.  Pray  be  a  little  tolerant 
of  our  mirth  and  noise,  because  of  the  excess  of  our 
animal  spirits ;  which  we  can  no  more  repress  wholly 
than  you  can  stop  the  gushing  fountains  and  flowing 
brooks  of  spring.  How  delightful  to  all  young  crea 
tures  is  freedom  !  Pray  suffer  us  to  breathe  a  little  of 
that  wholesome  luxury.  Why  should  AVC  be  made  to 
envy  the  lambs  that  frolic  in  the  pastures  ?  What !  is 
our  home  a  monastery,  and  are  we  monks  and  nuns, 
that  nowhere  and  never  can  wre  for  a  moment  seem  to 
ourselves  exempt  from  irksome  supervision — never  feel 
ourselves  at  large  a  little,  to  run  about  as  our  eager 
senses  and  our  sportive  spirits  prompt  us  ?  How  ab 
surd  to  say  to  us,  as  you  often  do  in  look  and  in  effect,  if 
not  in  just  those  words,  "Don't  be  so  childish  !"  What 
are  we  else  but  children,  and  what  else  is  to  be  expected 
but  that  we  should  think  as  children,  speak  as  children, 
and  understand  and  act  as  children  ?  When  we  become 
men  and  women  we  shall  behave  as  such.  You  wonder 
at  our  emotions  and  behaviour ;  you  see  nothing  to  justify 
it.  We  are  always  looking,  hearkening,  shouting,  leap 
ing,  wishing,  fearing,  hoping,  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
ordinary  objects.  Well,  we  have  to  say  to  you  that  the 
most  ordinary  things  are  new  and  strange  to  us,  and 
therefore  exciting.  Do  but  consider  that  that  mountain 


RESPECT   TO   CHILDREN.  253 

there — Lill  or  hillock  only,  as  it  may  seem  to  you — over 
which  the  blue  sky  sleeps,  or  the  fleecy  clouds  sail,  is 
the  first,  perhaps  the  only  like  elevation  we  ever  saw, 
and  saw  that  so  recently  that  it  does  not  yet  cease  to 
affect  us  with  a  feeling  of  the  sublime.  To  you  it  is  a 
fixed  and  motionless  object;  but  to  us  its  top  nods  and 
swiins,  as  if  it  were  going  to  topple  down,  or  sail  away. 
High  trees,  tall  steeples,  great  rocks,  deep  pits  and 
gullies,  dark  fathomless  wells,  frightful  precipices,  awful 
solitudes,  great  storms  and  floods,  roaring  winds  and 
cataracts,  loud  thunder,  lightnings  that  can  be  felt  upon 
the  hands  and  face,  unutterable  splendours  in  the  rain 
bow — these  and  such  like  things,  how  few  of  them  you 
seem  to  perceive  at  your  time  of  life  ;  but  we,  all  sensi 
tive,  and  wakeful,  and  inexperienced  as  we  are,  are 
meeting  with  them  continually.  We  see  a  thousand 
sights  you  do  not  see,  and  hear  a  thousand  sounds  you 
do  not  hear.  How  alive  to  us  the  air  is  with  birds ! 
how  social  the  woods  with  winged  creatures,  quadrupeds, 
and  creeping  things !  A  squirrel  arrests  and  amuses  us 
as  a  mastodon  would  hardly  arrest  you.  What  an  in 
cident  to  us  is  the  passage  of  the  wild  geese  screaming 
along  their  airy  way  mid-heaven  !  Do  you  see  how 
vexed  the  sunbeams  are  with  insects?  You  heed  them 
not;  you  even  brush  them  from  your  eyes  and  breathe 
with  scarce  a  consciousness  of  their  presence.  What  a 
Baucy  rogue  is  echo  !  How  startling  is  the  sudden  sing 
ing  of  the  locust;  and  what  a  din  the  beetle  makes  upon 
the  wing  !  What  mysterious  things  the  fire-flies  are, 
twinkling  in  the  dark :  and  how  wakeful  does  the  distant 
baying  of  the  niastift'  keep  us,  when  we  have  gone  to 


254  DISCRIMINATION    WITH 

bed  !  A  love  of  the  marvellous  we  confess.  It  is  natu 
ral  alike  to  us  and  you,  with  this  difference,  that  with 
you  experience  has  done  away  with  the  objects  that 
used  to  excite  it. 

Some  such  plea  as  this  I  incline  to  make  in  behalf  of 
such  little  people  as  are  subjected  to  uncharitable  judg 
mcnt,  or  over-strict  restraint.  A  still  child  is  cither 
unwell  or  unnatural ;  and  a  child  that  sees  things  with 
the  senses  of  an  adult  is  either  a  prodigy  or  a  dolt. 
The  eyes  of  children  are  magnifying  lenses,  and  their 
ears  acoustic  tubes.  They  see  things  large  and  wonder 
ful,  and  see  them  manifold  and  multiform — a  hundred 
cats  where  there  are  but  two  or  three.  Hence  the 
cumulative  style  of  their  descriptions — "  great,  big, 
large" — with  all  the  other  intensive  words  and  syno 
nyms  they  are  able  to  command;  and  hence  we  often 
charge  them,  and  sometimes  cruelly,  perhaps,  with  cul 
pable  exaggerations,  if  not  with  downright  falsehoods. 
when  they  do  but  report  things  as  they  apprehend  them. 
Hyperbole  with  them  is  not  hyperbole,  in  all  cases.  Do 
we  not  all  naturally  use  such  language  as  our  senses  and 
emotions  dictate  ?  And  who  shall  acquit  us  grown 
people  of  expressing  more,  or  expressing  less,  than  the 
truth,  if  other  people's  senses  and  experience  are  to  be 
the  standard  ? 

An  intelligent  gentleman,  who  had  been  absent  above 
fifty  years  from  his  and  our  native  place,  requested  my 
brother  to  conduct  him  to  the  "Beggar-land."  This 
was  a  little  common,  a  rood  or  more  of  green-sward, 
elliptical  in  form,  with  a  bank  round  its  sides.  It  hud 
been  a  favourite  play -ground  of  several  generations  On, 


RESPECT   TO   CHILDREN.  255 

coming  to  the  spot,  "That  the  Beggar-land!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  But  how  extravagant  were  my  impressions 
of  it!  carried  away  with  me  in  my  childhood.  I  ima 
gined  those  banks  to  he  at  least  seventy  feet  high,  and 
would  almost  have  taken  my  oath  of  it ;  whereas  they 
are  not  above  a  dozen  feet.  And  they  cannot  but  be 
as  high  now  as  they  ever  were,  indeed  they  must  be 
higher;  for  the  level  turf  is  as  it  was,  while  the  road  on 
one  side  and  the  little  water-course  on  the  other  would 
naturally  be  wearing  deeper,  and  thus  increase  the  ele 
vation  between." 

Thus  we  see  things  in  our  childhood ;  and  due  allow 
ance  should  be  made  for  it,  in  justice  and  in  charity. 
However,  these  remarks  must  not  be  pushed  too  far. 
While  we  teach  the  heart  to  mean  truth,  we  should  also 
discipline  the  senses  to  perceive  the  truth  ;  that  so  the 
heart,  the  senses,  and  the  tongue,  may  all  be  truthful. 
How  amiable  is  truthfulness,  how  beautiful  is  truth  ! 


HOME  ECONOMY. 

MRS.  SIGOURNEY,  in  her  admirable  series  of  letters  to 
mothers,  offers,  on  this  subject,  some  truthful  observa 
tions.  She  says : — 

I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  mothers  on  a  point  of 
domestic  economy.  In  a  country  like  ours,  where  there 
are  few  large  estates,  and  where  almost  every  father  of 
a  family  is  subjected  to  some  kind  of  labour,  either  for 
the  maintenance  of  those  who  are  dear,  or  the  preserva- 


256  HOME    ECONOMY. 

tion  of  possessions  on  which  they  are  to  depend  when 
lie  shall  be  taken  from  them,  the  duty  of  the  u  help 
meet,"  to  lighten  as  far  as  possible  these  burdens,  by  a 
consistent  economy,  is  too  obvious  to  need  illustration. 
To  adapt  whatever  may  be  intrusted  to  her  care,  to  the 
best  ends,  and  to  make  it  subservient  to  the  greatest 
amount  of  good,  should  be  her  daily  study.  There  is, 
perhaps,  no  community  of  women,  who  more  faithfully, 
or  dexterously,  than  the  wives  and  mothers  of  New  Eng 
land,  carry  this  wisdom  and  forethought  into  all  the 
details  of  that  science  by  which  the  table  is  spread,  and 
the  apparel  adapted,  to  the  ever-changing  seasons.  The 
same  judgment  which  so  admirably  regulates  food  and 
clothing,  it  would  be  desirable  to  apply  to  another  and 
a  higher  department.  It  is  to  mothers,  with  the  care 
of  young  children,  that  these  remarks  on  economy  are 
peculiarly  addressed.  They  have  the  charge  of  im 
mortal  beings,  whose  physical,  mental,  and  moral  tem 
perament  are,  for  a  long  period,  exclusively  in  their 
hands.  Nothing  save  the  finger  of  God  has  written  on 
the  tablet,  when  it  is  committed  to  them.  It  is  im 
portant  that  they  secure  time  to  form  deep  and  lasting 
impressions. 

Let  them,  therefore,  devote  their  first  strength,  and 
their  utmost  eifort,  to  the  highest  duties.  The  heart 
soon  develops  itself,  and  asks  culture.  Through  the 
feelings  and  affections  it  bursts  forth,  even  while  the 
infant  is  considered  not  to  have  advanced  beyond  animal 
nature.  The  preferences,  the  passions,  reveal  them 
selves,  like  the  young  tendrils  of  the  vine,  reaching  out 
feebly  arid  blindly.  The  mother  must  be  assiduous,  in 


HOME   ECONOMY.  257 

teaching  them  where  to  twine.  While  the  character  of 
the  babe  is  forming,  let  every  action  and  indication  of 
motive  be  a  subject  of  observation.  But  how  can  she 
be  adequate  to  this,  if  the  whole  attention  to  the  per 
sonal  comfort  of  several  young  children  devolves  upon 
herself  ?  If  she  is  to  make  and  mend  their  articles  of 
dress,  bear  them  in  her  arms  during  their  period  of 
helplessness,  and  exhaust  herself  by  toils  throughout 
the  day,  and  watchings  by  night,  how  can  she  have 
leisure  to  study  their  varying  shades  of  disposition,  and 
adapt  to  each  the  fitting  mode  of  discipline,  as  the  skil 
ful  gardener  suits  the  plant  to  the  soil  ?  Will  she 
not  be  sometimes  moved  to  apostrophize  them,  like  the 
leader  of  the  wandering,  repining  Israelites,  "  how  can 
I  alone  bear  your  cumbrance,  and  your  burden,  and 
your  strife?" 

The  remedy  is,  for  the  mother  to  provide  herself  with 
competent  assistance,  in  the  sphere  of  manual  labour, 
that  she  may  be  enabled  to  become  the  constant  direc 
tress  of  her  children,  and  have  leisure  to  be  happy  in 
their  companionship.  This  would  seem  to  be  a  rational 
economy.  The  thrifty  village-matron,  when  she  returns 
from  church,  takes  off  her  Sunday  dress,  and  deposits 
it  in  its  accustomed  place,  substituting  one  better  fitted 
to  her  household  duties.  She  is  not  blamed  for  preserv 
ing  her  most  valuable  garment  for  its  appropriate  uses. 
Let  every  mother  pay  herself  the  same  respect,  which 
the  good  farmer's  lady  pays  her  "  bettermost  gown'" 
not  the  homage  of  a  miserly  parsimony,  but  a  just  pro 
tection  in  freshness  and  order,  for  fitting  and  dignified 
offices. 

17 


258  HOME   ECONOMY. 

"  My  husband  cannot  afford  to  hire  a  nurse  for  the 
little  ones,"  said  a  young  friend.  "  We  have  so  many, 
that  we  must  economize." 

Her  mother  suggested  that  the  expenditure  should  he 
saved  in  some  other  department  of  housekeeping,  in  the 
toilette,  or  in  luxurious  entertainment.  But  the  counsel 
was  not  accepted  by  the  daughter,  who,  in  her  zeal  for 
economy,  failed  to  comprehend  its  elementary  principles. 

She  commenced  her  task  with  vigour,  and  confidence 
in  the  correctness  of  her  own  decision.  Sickness  in  the 
various  forms  that  mark  the  progress  of  dentition,  and 
neglect  of  slight  diseases  in  their  first  symptoms,  came 
upon  her  young  family.  Uninstructed  by  experience, 
she  gave  powerful  medicines  for  trifling  maladies,  or 
summoned  and  teased  physicians,  when  Nature  was 
simply  perfecting  her  own  operations.  The  children 
who  had  emerged  from  infancy,  were  indulging  bad  dis 
positions,  and  acquiring  improper  habits.  She  knew  it. 
But  what  could  she  do  ?  She  was  depressed  by  fatigue. 
The  wardrobe  of  her  numerous  little  ones  continually 
required  her  attention.  It  would  not  do  for  them  to  be 
unfashionably  clad,  or  appear  worse  than  their  neigh 
bours.  So,  the  soul  being  most  out  of  sight,  must  suffer 
most.  Blindnes?  to  evil,  or  hasty  punishment,  render 
ing  it  still  more  inveterate,  were  the  only  resources  of 
her  hurried  and  hurrying  mode  of  existence.  For  her, 
there  seemed  no  rest.  If  health  returned  to  her  young 
family,  mental  diseases  were  disclosed.  She  became 
spiritless,  nervous,  and  discouraged.  She  was  harassed 
by  the  application  offeree  among  the  inferior  machinery. 
When  it  was  necessary  that  power  should  be  brought  to 


HOME    ECONOMY.  259 


bear  upon  the  minds  committed  to  her  care,  she 
painfully  conscious  that  her  energies  had  spent  them 
selves  in  other  channels.  Running  up  the  shrouds  like 
a  ship-boy,  the  helm,  where  she  should  stand,  was  left 
unguided.  The  pilot,  steering  among  rocks,  does  not 
weary  himself  with  the  ropes  and  rigging,  which  a  com 
mon  sailor  as  well  manages,  and  better  understands. 

The  temper  and  constitution  of  the  young  mother 
became  equally  impaired.  Her  husband  complained  of 
the  bad  conduct  and  rude  manners  of  the  children. 
'What  could  she  do?  She  was  sure  there  was  nothing 
but  toil  and  trouble,  by  night  and  by  day."  This  was 
true.  There  was  an  error  in  economy.  The  means 
were  not  adapted  to  their  highest  ends.  She  was  an 
educated  woman,  and  a  Christian.  Her  children  should 
have  reaped  the  advantage  of  her  internal  wealth,  as 
soon  as  their  unfolding  minds  cast  forth  the  first  beam 
of  intelligence.  But  she  led  the  life  of  a  galley-slave, 
and  their  heritage  was  in  proportion. 

Is  this  an  uncommon  example  ?  Have  we  not  often 
witnessed  it  ?  Have  we  not  ourselves  exhibited  some  of 
its  lineaments  ? 

The  proposed  remedy,  is  to  employ  an  efficient  person 
in  the  nurse's  department.  I  say  efficient,  for  the  young 
girls,  to  whom  this  responsibility  is  sometimes  intrusted, 
are  themselves  an  additional  care.  "  I  am  not  willing," 
Baid  a  judicious  father,  "to  place  my  infant  in  the  arms 
of  one,  with  whom  I  would  not  trust  an  expensive  glass 
dish."  Half-grown  girls  are  not  the  proper  assistants 
to  a  young  mother.  They  themselves  need  her  super  • 


2GO  HOME   ECONOMY 

intendence,  and  create  new  demands  on  time  already 
too  much  absorbed. 

"  I  know  she  is  small,"  says  the  mistaken  parent, 
"  but  she  will  do  to  hold  a  baby." 

Holding  a  baby,  is  not  so  slight  a  vocation  as  many 
suppose.  Physicians  assert  that  deformity  is  often  pro 
duced,  by  keeping  an  infant  in  those  uneasy  positions 
to  which  a  feeble  arm  resorts ;  and  health  and  life  have 
been  sacrificed  to  accidents  and  falls,  through  the  care 
lessness,  or  impatience,  of  an  over-wearied  girl.  The 
argument  for  the  substitution  of  an  immature  nurse, 
drawn  from  the  circumstance  of  the  saving  of  expense, 
is  doubtless  futile ;  for  the  apparel  and  means  of  educa 
tion,  which  a  conscientious  person  feels  bound  to  provide 
for  a  young  girl,  Avill  equal  the  wages  of  a  woman.  In 
many  departments  of  domestic  labour,  the  help  of  minors 
is  both  pleasant  and  profitable  ;  and  the  lady  who  brings 
them  up  properly,  confers  a  benefit  on  the  community, 
and  may  secure  to  herself  lasting  gratitude  and  attach 
ment. 

But  the  physical  welfare  of  infancy  is  of  such  im 
mense  importance,  that  it  seems  desirable  that  those 
whom  the  mother  associates  with  herself  in  this  depart 
ment,  should  have  attained  full  strength,  both  of  mind 
and  body.  Moral  integrity,  patient  and  kind  disposi 
tions,  industrious  habits,  and  religious  principles,  aie 
essential  to  the  faithful  discharge  of  these  deputed 
duties,  and  to  render  that  influence  safe,  which  they 
will  necessarily  acquire  over  the  little  being  whose  com 
fort  they  promote.  Such  qualities  are  deserving  of 
respect,  in  whatever  station  they  may  be  found ;  and  I 


HOME   ECONOMY.  201 

rrould  suggest,  both  as  a  point  of  policy  and  justice,  tlio 
attaching  higher  consideration  to  the  office  of  a  nurse, 
when  her  character  comprises  them.  If  the  nurture  of 
an  immortal  being  for  immortality  is  an  honourable 
work,  and  if  its  earliest  impressions  are  allowed  to  be 
most  indelible,  those  who  minister  to  its  humblest  wants, 
partake  in  some  measure  of  its  elevated  destiny ;  as  the 
porters  and  Levites  derived  dignity  from  the  temple- 
service,  though  they  might  not  wear  the  Uritn  and 
Thummim  of  the  High-Priest,  or  direct  the  solemn 
sacrifices,  Avhen  the  flame  of  Heaven  descended  upon 
the  altar. 

To  the  inquiry,  why  this  kind  of  assistance  is  more 
needed  by  the  mother  in  our  own  days,  than  by  her  of  the 
"olden  time,"  by  whom  the  care  of  children,  the  opera 
tions  of  the  needle,  the  mysteries  of  culinary  science, 
and  all  the  complicated  duties  of  housekeeping,  Avere 
simultaneously  performed,  without  failure  or  chasm,  the 
natural  reply  is,  that  the  structure  of  society  is  different, 
and  from  an  educated  parent  the  modern  system  of 
division  of  labour  asks  new  and  extended  effort.  She 
requires  aid,  not  that  she  may  indulge  in  indolence,  but 
that  she  may  devote  the  instruments  intrusted  to  her  to 
their  legitimate  uses.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  sphere  of 
action,  where  indolence  is  both  so  fatal  and  so  sinful,  as 
in  that  of  a  mother  of  young  children.  She  is  a  sentinel 
who  should  never  sleep  at  her  post.  She  cannot  be  long 
relieved  without  hazard,  or  exchanged  without  loss.  She 
should  therefore  be  careful  of  her  strength,  her  health, 
and  her  life,  for  her  children  s  sake.  If  she  employ  a 
subaltern,  it  is  that  she  may  give  herself  more  exclu 
sively  to  their  highest  and  best  interests. 


262  HOME    ECONOMY. 

Let  her  be  persuaded,  whatever  may  be  the  demands 
upon  her  time,  or  their  advantages  for  gaining  know 
ledge  from  other  sources,  to  spend  systematically  a  por 
tion  of  time  in  their  daily  instruction.  Let  her  also  be 
with  them,  when  they  retire  at  night,  to  review  the 
day's  little  gatherings  and  doings,  and  to  point  the 
tender  spirit  to  the  Giver  of  all  its  gifts.  Let  the 
period  devoted  to  them,  be  as  far  as  possible  uninter 
rupted  by  the  presence  of  others,  and  chosen,  in  the 
morning,  before  care  has  seized  the  teacher's  mind,  or 
temptation  sadden  the  beloved  pupil.  Let  the  time  be 
spent  in  reading  some  book  adapted  to  their  comprehen 
sion,  which  conveys  useful-  knowledge  or  moral  and  reli 
gious  instruction,  questioning  them  respecting  its  con 
tents,  and  adding  such  illustrations,  as  the  subject,  or 
their  peculiar  state  of  intellect  and  feeling,  may  render 
appropriate;  having  it  always  understood,  that  at  night, 
some  recapitulation  will  be  expected  of  the  lessons  of 
the  day. 

The  mother  who  regularly  does  this,  will  find  herself 
in  *he  practice  of  a  true  and  palpable  economy.  She 
will  be  induced  to  furnish  herself  with  new  knowledge, 
and  to  simplify  it,  for  those  whom  she  seeks  to  train  up 
for  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  She  will  not  strive  to  com 
bine  fashionable  amusement,  or  dissipation  of  thought, 
with  her  solemn  and  delightful  obligations.  She  will 
labour  as  "ever  in  her  Great  Task-Master's  Eye,"  to 
do  for  the  minds  and  souls  of  her  children,  that  which 
none  can  perform  as  well  as  herself,  which,  if  she 
neglects,  may  not  be  done  at  all,  and  which,  if  left 
undone,  will  be  a  loss,  for  which  Eternity  must  pay. 


YOUNG  MOTHER. 

YOUNG  mother,  what  do  you  hold  in  your  arms  ?  A 
machine  of  exquisite  symmetry;  the  blue  veins  revealing 
the  mysterious  life-tide  through  an  almost  transparent 
surface ;  the  waking  thought  speaking  through  the  spark 
ling  eye,  or  dissolving  there  in  tears ;  such  a  form  as  the 
art  of  man  has  never  equalled;  and  such  a  union  of 
matter  with  mind,  as  his  highest  reason  fails  to  compre 
hend.  Yon  embrace  a  being,  whose  developments  may 
yet  astonirh  you ;  who  may  perhaps  sway  the  destiny  of 
others  ;  whose  gatherings  of  knowledge  you  can  neither 
foresee  n  )r  limit ;  and  whose  chequered  lot  of  sorrow  or 
of  joy.  are  known  only  to  the  Omnipotence  which 
fashioned  him.  Still,  if  this  were  all,  the  office  of  a 
mother  would  lose  its  crowning  dignity.  But  to  be  the 
guide  of  a  spirit  which  can  never  die,  to  make  the  first 
indelible  impressions  on  what  may  be  a  companion  of 
seraphs,  ?,nd  live  with  an  unbounded  capacity  for  bliss 
or  woe,  when  these  poor  skies  under  which  it  was  born, 
shall  have  vanished  like  a  vision,  this  is  the  fearful 
honour  v^hich  God  hath  intrusted  to  the  "  weaker  ves 
sel,"  and  which  would  make  us  tremble  amid  our  happi 
ness,  if  we  took  not  refuge  in  Him. 

I  have  seen  a  young  and  beautiful  mother,  herself  lit  e 
a  brilliant  and  graceful  flower.  Nothing  could  divide 
her  from  her  infant.  It  was  to  her  as  a  twin-soul.  She 
had  loved  society,  for  there  she  had  been  as  an  idol. 
But  what  was  the  fleeting  delight  of  adulation,  to  the 


264  YOUNG   MOTHER. 

deep  love  tlrat  took  possession  of  her  whole  being  !  Sho 
had  loved  her  father's  house.  There,  she  was  ever  like 
a  song-bird,  the  first  to  welcome  the  day,  and  the  last  to 
bless  it.  Now,  she  wreathed  the  same  blossoms  of  the 
heart  around  another  home,  and  lulled  her  little  nursling 
with  the  same  inborn  melodies. 

It  was  sick.  She  hung  over  it.  She  watched  it.  She 
comforted  it.  She  sat  whole  nights  with  it  in  her  arms. 
It  was  to  her  like  the  beloved  of  the  King  of  Israel, 
"  feeding  among  the  lilies."  Under  the  pressure  of 
this  care,  there  was  in  her  eye  a  deep  and  holy  beauty, 
which  never  gleamed  there,  when  she  was  radiant  in  the 
dance,  or  in  the  halls  of  fashion  the  cynosure.  She 
had  been  taught  to  love  God,  and  his  worship,  from  her 
youth  up ;  but  when  health  again  glowed  in  the  face  of 
her  babe,  there  came  from  her  lip  such  a  prayer  of  flow 
ing  praise,  as  it  had  never  before  breathed. 

And  when  in  her  beautiful  infant  there  were  the  first 
developments  of  character,  and  of  those  preferences  and 
aversions  which  leave  room  to  doubt  whether  they  are 
from  simplicity  or  perverseness,  and  whether  they  should 
be  repressed  or  pitied,  and  how  the  harp  might  be  so 
tuned  as  not  to  injure  its  tender  and  intricate  harmony, 
there  burst  from  her  soul  a  supplication  more  earnest, 
more  self-abandoning,  more  prevailing,  than  she  had 
ever  before  poured  into  the  ear  of  the  majesty  of  Heaven. 

So  the  feeble  hand  of  the  babe  that  she  nourished,  led 
her  through  more  profound  depths  of  humility,  to  higher 
aspirations  of  faith.  And  I  felt  that  the  affection,  to 
whose  hallowed  influence  she  had  so  yielded,  was  guiding 
her  to  a  higher  seat  among  the  "just  made  perfect." 


HOW  TO  MAKE  BOYS  LOVE  HOME. 

"  I  WISH  those  boys  loved  to  stay  at  home  in  the 
evening,"  said  a  mother  in  my  hearing,  last  night ; 
and  the  sigh  and  look  of  distress  which  accompanied 
her  words,  told  plainly  that  her  heart  was  deeply  pained 
by  their  oft-repeated  absence,  and  she  watched  their 
retreating  footsteps  with  a  troubled  countenance,  and 
knew  not  what  might  be  the  company  they  sought,  nor 
what  evil  influence  might  be  thrown  around  them. 

They  were  industrious  boys  of  sixteen  and  eighteen, 
just  beginning  to  fancy  they  were  too  large  and  too  old 
to  be  longer  subject  to  parental  authority.  They  were 
not  vicious  or  idle,  but  worked  with  a  willing  hand 
through  the  day,  doing  the  work  of  men ;  but  when 
evening  came,  they  sought  pleasure  abroad,  unmindful 
of  a  father's  advice,  or  a  mother's  entreaty.  I  glanced 
around  their  home,  a  comfortable,  farmer-like  dwelling, 
where  all  the  wants  of  the  physical  nature  were  well 
supplied,  but,  as  is  too  often  the  case,  the  food  for  the 
mind  was  less  abundant.  A  few  school  books,  which 
the  boys  had  never  learned  to  love,  a  Bible,  and  a 
hymn  book,  constituted  the  family  library;  and  I  was 
not  surprised  that  they  should  leave  the  circle  aj;  home, 
and  seek  the  cheerful  throng  that  were  lounging  in  the 
store,  or  join  in  the  vulgar  mirth  and  profane  jests  that 
went  round  the  boisterous  group. 

"  You  are  seeing  your  happiest  days  with  your  boy," 


266  HOW   TO   MAKE   BOYS   LOVE   HOME. 

said  'the  mother  to  me,  as  my  baby  clung  to  my  arm 
with  the  sweet  confidence  of  infancy ;  "  you  know  where 
he  is,  and  have  no  anxiety  for  him  now;  but  when  he  is 
older,  he  will  be  beyond  your  influence,  and  go  you 
know  not  where." 

I  thought  of  the  old  proverb,  "  Train  up  a  child  in 
the.\\ay  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old  he  will  not 
depart  from  it;"  and  I  shook  my  head  doubtingly,  and 
said  nothing.  But  I  asked  myself,  is  it  really  true,  as 
I  have  often  heard  it  remarked,  that  parents  enjoy  more 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  their  children  in  infancy,  than 
in  youth  and  maturity  ?  If  so,  surely  there  is  a  reason, 
and  that  reason  too  often  the  result  of  parental  mistakes 
in  the  early  discipline  of  their  children.  We  watch  with 
delight  the  first  dawning  of  intellect,  await  with  impa 
tience  the  first  indistinct  effort  to  talk,  and  are  pleased 
with  their  infantile  prattle,  and  it  seems  strange  that 
the  pleasures  of  social  intercourse  should  diminish  with 
their  growing  intelligence. 

But  we  cannot  expect  children  to  be  like  ourselves, 
steady,  old,  and  care-worn.  Fun  and  frolic  are  essen 
tial  to  their  happiness,  and  it  is  no  injury  to  any  one  to 
join  heartily  in  these  sports.  If  we  enter  into  their 
eports  in  childhood,  and  take  the  lead  of  their  pleasures 
in  youth,  we  shall  keep  our  own  hearts  young  and  joyous, 
make  home  the  centre  of  attractions,  and  while  doing 
much  to  educate  their  mental  faculties,  we  shall  find  a 
far  greater  satisfaction  in  their  society,  than  we  can 
possibly  find  in  the  artless  trust  of  infancy. 

A  few  dollars  judiciously  expended  in  books  and  en 
gravings  suitable  for  young  children,  will  do  much  to 


HOW   TO    MAKE   BOYS  LOVE   HOME.  267 

awaken  a  love  of  home;  and  I  venture  to  assert,  there 
is  nothing  which  will  have  a  stronger  influence  in  keep 
ing  "  those  boys"  quietly  at  home,  than  to  cultivate  a 
taste  for  reading.  Begin  early.  Read  to  them  before 
they  can  read  for  themselves;  explain  what  you  read, 
and  encourage  them  to  converse  with  you  about  it. 
Teach  them  to  observe  the  common  phenomena  of  na 
ture,  and  to  study  into  the  causes  which  produce  the 
effects  they  see.  A  mother  may  do  this  herself  without 
being  a  philosopher.  She  may  awaken  their  curiosity 
upon  the  various  objects  around  them,  and  direct  them 
where  this  curiosity  may  be  gratified,  place  within  their 
reach  useful  and  instructive  books,  and  show  by  example 
as  well  as  by  precept  that  she  appreciates  them,  and  the 
pleasures  of  home  will  be  purer  and  sweeter  to  every 
member  of  the  family,  and  the  children  will  seldom  have 
occasion  to  seek  evening  amusement  away  from  the 
charmed  circle  of  home.  It  has  been  truthfully  said, 
"  a  good  book  is  the  best  of  company  ;"  and  the  earlier 
we  introduce  our  children  into  the  society  of  good  books, 
the  greater  will  be  the  benefit  derived  from  them,  and 
the  stronger  will  be  their  attachment  to  the  social  circle 
around  the  evening  fire,  and  there  will  be  less  danger 
of  their  seeking  diversion  in  the  society  of  the  idle  and 
vicious.  But  if  we  neglect  to  make  home  happy,  and 
to  furnish  entertainment  for  the  intellect,  be  assure  1 
that  the  restless  desire  of  the  human  mind  for  "some 
new  thing,"  will  frequently  attract  "  those  boys,"  and 
girls  too,  away  from  home  in  search  of  amusement. 


IIAIPY  AT  HOME. 

LKT  the  gay  and  the  idle  go  forth  where  they  will, 

In  search  of  soft  Pleasure,  that  syren  of  ill ; 

Let  them  seek  her  in  Fashion's  illumined  saloon, 

Where  Melody  mocks  at  the  heart  out  of  tune ; 

Where  the  laugh  gushes  light  from  the  lips  of  the  maiden. 

While  her  spirit,  perchance,  is  with  sorrow  o'erladen ; 

And  where,  'mid  the  garlands  Joy  only  should  braid, 

Is  Slander,  the  snake,  by  its  rattle  betrayed. 

Ah,  no  !  let  the  idle  for  happiness  roam, 

For  me — I  but  ask  to  be  "  happy  at  home  1" 

At  home !  oh  how  thrillingly  sweet  is  that  word, 
And  by  it  what  visions  of  beauty  are  stirred! 
I  ask  not  that  Luxury  curtain  my  room 
With  damask  from  India's  exquisite  loom  ; 
The  sunlight  of  heaven  is  precious  to  me, 
And  muslin  will  veil  it  if  blazing  too  free ; 
The  elegant  trifles  of  Fashion  and  Wealth 
I  need  not — I  ask  but  for  comfort  and  health ! 
With  these  and  my  dear  ones  I  care  not  to  roam, 
For,  oh  !  I  am  happy,  most  "  happy  at  home  1" 

One  bright  little  room  where  the  children  may  play, 
Unfearful  of  spoiling  the  costly  array  ; 
Where  he,  too — our  dearest  of  all  on  the  earth, 
May  find  the  sweet  welcome  he  loves  at  his  hearth ; 
The  fire  blazing  warmly — the  sofa  drawn  nigh, 
And  the  star  lamp  alight  on  the  table  close  by ; 
A  few  sunny  pictures  in  simple  frames  shrined, 
A  few  precious  volumes — the  wealth  of  the  mind  ; 
And  here  and  there  treasured  some  rare  gem  of  art» 
To  kindle  the  fancy  or  soften  the  heart; 
Tlius  richly  surrounded,  why,  why  should  I  roam? 
Oh  !  am  I  not  happy — most  "  happy  at  home  ?" 


OUR    OLD   GRANDMOTHER. 

The  little  ones,  weary  of  books  and  of  play, 

Nestle  down  on  our  bosoms — our  Ellen  and  May  I 

And  softly  the  simple,  affectionate  prayer, 

Ascends  in  the  gladness  of  innocence  there  ; 

And  now,  ere  they  leave  us,  sweet  kisses  and  light 

They  lavish,  repeating  their  merry  "good-night!" 

While  I  with  my  needle,  my  book,  or  my  pen, 

Or  in  converse  with  HIM,  am  contented  again, 

Arid  cry — "  Can  I  ever  be  tempted  to  roam, 

While  blessings  like  these  make  me  happy  at  home?" 


OUR  OLD  GRANDMOTHER. 

B..SSSED  be  the  children  who  have  an  old-fashioned 
grandmother  !  As  they  hope  for  length  of  days  let 
them  love  and  honour  her,  for  we  can  tell  them  they 
will  never  find  another. 

The  dear,  oM-fashioned  grandmother,  whose  thread 
ot  love,  spun  "  by  hand"  on  life's  little  wheel,  was 
longer  and  stronger  than  they  make  it  now,  was  wound 
about  and  about  the  children  she  saw  playing  in  the 
children's  arms,  in  a  true  love  knot  that  nothing  but 
the  shears  of  Atropos  could  sever ;  for  do  we  not  recog 
nise  the  lambs  sometimes,  when  summer  days  are  over, 
and  autumn  winds  are  blowing,  as  they  come  bleating 
from  the  yellow  fields,  by  the  crimson  thread  we  wound 
about  their  necks  in  April  or  May,  and  so  undo  the 
gate  and  let  the  Avanderers  in  ? 

There  is  a  large  old  kitchen  somewhere  in  the  past, 
and  an  old-fashioned  fire-place  therein,  with  its  smooth 


270  OUR   OLD   GRANDMOTHER. 

old  jambs  of  stone ;  smooth  with  many  knives  that  had 
been  sharpened  there ;  smooth  with  many  little  fingers 
that  have  clung  there.  There  are  andirons,  too,  the  old 
andirons,  with  rings  in  the  top,  wherein  many  temples 
of  flames  have  been  builded,  with  spires  and  turrets  of 
crimson.  There  is  a  broad  worn  hearth ;  broad  enough 
for  three  generations  to  cluster  on  ;  worn  by  feet  that 
have  been  torn  and  bleeding  by  the  way,  or  been  made 
"beautiful,"  and  walked  upon  floors  of  tessellated  gold. 
There  are  tongs  in  the  corner  wherewith  we  grasped  a 
coal,  and  "  blowing  for  a  little  life,"  lighted  our  first 
candle ;  there  is  a  shovel,  wherewith  were  drawn  forth 
the  glowing  embers  in  which  we  saw  our  first  fancies 
and  dreamed  our  first  dreams ;  the  shovel  with  which 
we  stirred  the  sleepy  logs  till  the  sparks  rushed  up  the 
chimney,  as  if  a  forge  were  in  blast  below,  and  wished 
we  had  so  many  lambs,  or  so  many  marbles,  or  so  many 
somethings  that  we  coveted;  and  so  it  was  we  wished 
our  first  wishes. 

There  is  a  chair — a  low,  rush-bottom  chair ;  there  is 
a  little  wheel  in  the  corner,  a  big  wheel  in  the  garret,  a 
loom  in  the  chamber.  There  are  chests  full  of  linen 
and  yarn,  and  quilts  of  rare  pattern,  and  "  samplers"  in 
frames. 

And  everywhere  and  always  the  dear  old  wrinkled 
face  of  her  whose  firm,  elastic  step  mocks  the  feeble 
saunter  of  her  children's  children — the  old-fashioned 
grandmother  of  twenty  years  ago.  She,  the  very  Pro 
vidence  of  the  old  homestead ;  she,  who  loved  us  all. 
and  said  she  wished  there  were  more  of  us  to  love,  ami 
took  all  the  school  in  the  Hollow  for  grandchildren 


OUR   OLD   GRANDMOTHER  271 

beside.  A  great  expansive  heart  was  hers,  beneath  that 
woollen  gown,  or  that  more  stately  bombazine,  or  that 
sole  heirloom  of  silken  texture. 

We  can  see  her  to-day,  those  mild  blue  eyes,  with 
more  of  beauty  in  them  than  Time  could  touch  or  Death 
do  more  than  hide — those  eyes  that  held  both  smiles 
and  tears  within  the  faintest  call  of  every  one  of  us,  and 
soft  reproof,  that  seemed  not  passion  but  regret.  A 
white  tress  has  escaped  from  beneath  her  snowy  cap ; 
she  has  just  restored  a  wandering  lamb  to  its  mother ; 
she  lengthened  the  tether  of  a  vine  that  was  straying 
over  a  window,  as  she  came  in,  and  plucked  a  four- 
leaved  clover  for  Ellen.  She  sits  down  by  the  little 
wheel — a  tress  is  running  through  her  fingers  from  the 
distaff's  dishevelled  head,  when  a  small  voice  cries 
"  Grandma,"  from  the  old  red  cradle,  and  "Grandma!" 
Tommy  shouts  from  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Gently  she  lets 
go  the  thread,  for  her  patience  is  almost  as  beautiful  as 
her  charity,  and  she  touches  the  little  red  bark  a  mo 
ment  till  the  young  voyager  is  in  a  dream  again,  and 
then  directs  Tommy's  unavailing  attempts  to  harness  the 
cat.  The  tick  of  the  clock  runs  faint  and  low,  and  she 
opens  the  mysterious  door  and  proceeds  to  wind  it  up. 
We  are  all  on  tiptoe,  and  we  beg  in  a  breath  to  be  lifted  up 
and  look  in  for  the  hundredth  time  upon  the  tin  cases  of 
the  weights,  and  the  poor  lonely  pendulum,  which  goea 
to  and  fro  by  its  little  dim  window,  and  never  comes  out 
in  the  world;  and  our  petitions  are  all  granted,  and  we 
are  lifted  up,  and  we  all  touch  with  a  finger  the  wonder 
ful  weights,  and  the  music  of  the  little  wheel  is  resumed. 

Was  Mary  to  be  married,  or  Jane  to  be  wrapped  in  i 


272  OCR  OLD   GRANDMOTHER. 

shroud  ?  So  meekly  did  she  fold  the  white  hands  of 
the  one  upon  her  still  bosom,  that  there  seemed  to  be  a 
prayer  in  them  there ;  and  so  sweetly  did  she  wreath 
the  white  rose  in  the  hair  of  the  other,  that  one  would 
net  have  wondered  had  more  roses  budded  for  company. 

How  she  stood  between  us  and  apprehended  harm  ; 
how  the  rudest  of  us  softened  beneath  the  gentle  pres 
sure  of  her  faded  and  tremulous  hand  !  From  her  capa 
cious  pocket  that  hand  was  ever  withdrawn  closed,  only 
to  be  opened  in  our  own  with  the  nuts  she  had  gathered, 
the  cherries  she  had  plucked,  the  little  egg  she  had 
found,  the  "turn-over"  she  had  baked,  the  trinket  she 
had  purchased  for  us  as  the  product  of  her  spinning, 
the  blessing  she  had  stored  for  us — the  offspring  of  her 
heart. 

What  treasures  of  story  fell  from  those  old  lips  !  of 
good  fairies  and  evil ;  of  the  old  times  when  she  was  a 
girl;  and  we  wondered  if  ever — but  then  she  couldn't  be 
handsomer  or  dearer,  but  that  she  ever  was  "little."' 
And  then,  when  we  begged  her  to  sing,  "  Sing  us  one 
of  the  good  old  songs  you  used  to  sing  to  mother, 
grandma." 

" Children,  I  can't  sing,"  fche  always  said;  and  mother 
used  to  lay  her  knitting  softly  down,  and  the  kitten 
stopped  playing  with  the  yarn  upon  the  floor,  and  the 
clock  ticked  lower  in  the  corner,  and  the  fire  died  down 
to  a  glow  like  an  old  heart  that  is  neither  chilled  nor 
dead,  and  grandmother  sang.  To  be  sure  it  wouldn't 
do  for  the  parlour  and  the  concert-room  now-a-days ; 
but  then  it  was  the  old  kitchen,  and  the  old-fashioned 
grandmother,  and  the  old  ballad,  in  the  dear  old  times, 


OUR   OLD   GRANDMOTHER.  273 

and  we  can  hardly  see  to  write  for  the  memory  of  them, 
though  it  is  hand's  oread th  to  the  sunset. 

Well,  she  sang.  Her  voice  was  feeble  and  wavering, 
like  a  fountain  just  ready  to  fall,  hut  then  how  sweet- 
ton?d  it  was ;  and  it  became  deeper  and  stronger,  but  it 
couldn't  grow  sweeter.  What  "joy  of  grief"  it  was  to 
eit  there  around  the  fire,  all  of  us  except  Jane ;  that 
clasped  a  prayer  to  her  bosom,  and  her  we  thought  we 
saw  when  the  hall  door  was  opened  a  moment  by  the 
wind ;  but  then  we  were  not  afraid,  for  wasn't  it  her  old 
smile  she  wore  ? — to  sit  there  around  the  fire  and  weep 
over  the  woes  of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Woods,"  who  lay 
down  side  by  side  in  the  great  solemn  shadows ;  and 
how  strangely  glad  we  felt  when  the  robin  red-breast 
covered  them  with  leaves,  and  last  of  all  when  the 
angels  took  them  out  of  the  night  into  day-everlasting. 

We  may  think  what  we  will  of  it  now,  but  the  song 
and  the  story  heard  around  the  kitchen  fire  have  coloured 
the  thoughts  and  lives  of  the  most  of  us;  have  given  us 
the  germs  of  whatever  poetry  blesses  our  hearts ;  what 
ever  of  memory  blooms  in  our  yesterdays.  Attribute 
whatever  we  may  to  the  school  and  the  schoolmaster, 
the  rays  which  make  that  little  day  we  call  life  radiate 
from  the  God-swept  circle  of  the  hearth-stone. 

Then  she  sings  an  old  lullaby  she  sang  to  mother — 
her  mother  sang  to  her;  but  she  does  not  sing  it  through, 
and  falters  ere  'tis  done.  She  rests  her  head  upon  her 
hands,  and  it  is  silent  in  the  old  kitchen.  Something 
glitters  down  between  her  fingers  in  the  fire-light,  and 
it  looks  like  rain  in  the  soft  sunshine.  The  old  grand 
mother  is  thinking  when  she  first  heard  the  song,  and 
18 


274  OUR   OLD   GRANDMOTHER. 

of  the  voice  that  sang  it ;  when,  a  light-haired  and  light- 
hearted  girl,  she  hung  around  that  mother's  chair,  nor 
saw  the  shadows  of  the  years  to  come.  Oh  !  the  days 
that  are  no  more  !  What  spell  can  we  weave  to  bring 
them  back  again  ?  What  words  unsay,  what  deeds 
undo,  to  set  back,  just  this  once,  the  ancient  clock  of 
time  ? 

So  all  our  little  hands  were  for  ever  clinging  to  her  gar 
ments  and  staying  her,  as  if  from  dying,  for  long  ago 
she  had  done  living  for  herself,  and  lived  alone  in  us. 
But  the  old  kitchen  wants  a  presence  to-day,  and  the 
rush-bottomed  chair  is  tenantless. 

How  she  used  to  welcome  us  when  we  were  grown, 
and  came  back  once  more  to  the  homestead. 

We  thought  we  were  men  and  women,  but  we  were 
children  there.  The  old-fashioned  grandmother  was 
blind  in  the  eyes,  but  she  saw  with  her  heart,  as  she 
always  did.  We  threw  our  long  shadows  through  the 
door,  and  she  felt  them  as  they  fell  over  her  form,  and 
she  looked  dimly  up  and  saw  tall  shapes  in  the  door 
way,  and  she  says,  "  Edward  I  know,  and  Lucy's  voice 
I  can  hear,  but  who  is  the  other  ?  It  must  be  Jane's  ;M 
for  she  had  almost  forgotten  the  folded  hands.  "  Oh, 
no !  not  Jane ;  for  she — let  me  see — she  is  waiting  for 
me,  isn't  she?"  and  the  old  grandmother  wandered  and 
wept. 

"  It  is  another  daughter,  grandmother,  that  Edward 
lias  brought,"  says  some  one,  "for  your  blessing." 

"  Has  she  blue  eyes,  my  son  ?  Put  her  hand  in  mine, 
for  she  is  my  latest  born,  the  child  of  my  old  age.  Shall 
I  sing  you  a  song,  children  ?"  Her  hand  is  in  her 


GOVERNMENT   OF   CHILDREN.  275 

pocket  as  of  old ;  she  is  idly  fumbling  for  a  toy,  a  wel 
come  gift  for  the  children  that  have  come  again. 

One  of  us,  men  as  we  thought  we  were,  is  weeping ; 
ehe  hears  the  half-suppressed  sob ;  she  says, 

"  Here,  my  poor  child,  rest  upon  your  grandmother's 
shoulder ;  she  will  protect  you  from  all  harm.  Come, 
children,  sit  round  the  fire  again.  Shall  I  sing  you  a 
song  or  tell  you  a  story  ?  Stir  the  fire,  for  it  is  cold ; 
the  nights  are  growing  colder!" 

The  clock  in  the  corner  struck  nine,  the  bedtime  of 
those  old  days.  The  song  of  life  was  indeed  sung,  the 
story  told  ;  it  was  bedtime  at  last.  Good  night  to  thee, 
grandmother  !  The  old-fashioned  grandmother  AY  as  no 
more,  and  we  miss  her  for  ever.  But  we  will  set  up  a 
tablet  in  the  midst  of  the  memory,  in  the  midst  of  the 
heart,  and  write  on  it  only  this :  *'  Sacred  to  the  Me 
mory  of  the  old-fashioned  Grandmother.  God  bless  her 
for  ever !" 


GOVERNMENT  OF  CHILDREN. 

ANTICIPATE  and  prevent  fretfulness  and  ill-temper  by 
keeping  the  child  in  good  health,  ease,  and  comfort. 
Never  quiet  with  giving  to  eat,  or  by  bribing  in  any 
way,  still  less  by  opiates. 

For  the  first  few  months  avoid  loud  and  harsh  sounds 
in  the  hearing  of  children,  or  viojent  lights  in  their 
eight ;  address  them  in  soft  tones ;  do  nothing  to  frighten 
them  ;  and  never  jerk  or  roughly  handle  them. 


276  GOVERNMENT   OF   CHILDREN. 

Avoid  angry  words  and  violence  both  to  a  child  ami 
in  its  presence :  by  which  means  a  naturally  violent 
child  may  be  trained  to  gentleness. 

Moderate  any  propensity  of  a  child,  such  as  anger, 
violence,  greediness  for  food,  cunning,  &c.,  which  ap 
pears  too  active.  Show  him  no  example  of  these. 

Let  the  mother  be,  and  let  her  select  servants  such 
as  she  wishes  the  child  to  be.  The  youngest  child  ia 
affected  by  the  conduct  of  those  in  whose  arms  he  lives. 

Let  a  mother  feel  as  she  ought,  and  she  will  look  as 
she  feds.  Much  of  a  child's  earliest  moral  training  is 
by  looks  and  gestures. 

When  necessary,  exhibit  firmness  and  authority, 
always  with  perfect  temper,  composure,  and  self-pos 
session. 

Never  give  a  child  that  which  it  cries  for;  and  avoid 
being  too  ready  in  answering  children's  demands,  else 
they  become  impatient  of  refusal,  and  selfish. 

When  the  child  is  most  violent,  the  mother  should  be 
most  calm  and  silent.  Out-screaming  a  screaming  child 
is  as  useless  as  it  is  mischievous.  Steady  denial  of  the 
object  screamed  for,  is  the  best  cure  for  screaming. 

In  such  contests,  witnesses  should  withdraw,  and  leave 
mother  and  child  alone.  A  child  is  very  ready  to  look 
round  and  attract  the  aid  of  foreign  sympathy  in  its 
little  rebellions. 

Never  promise  to  give  when  the  child  leaves  off  cry 
ing.  Let  the  crying  be  the  reason  for  not  giving. 


SPECIAL  EDUCATION. 

TRUE  education  in  its  highest  sense  is,  as  we  havo 
again  and  again  remarked,  the  thorough  and  happy 
development  of  the  whole  nature.  It  is  not  the  mere 
acquisition  of  knowledge,  of  accomplishments,  of  man 
ners — it  is  not  the  cultivation  of  the  intellect  or  of  the 
heart,  hut  it  is  the  blending  of  all  these  means  for  the 
attainment  of  one  grand  end — an  end  to  he  arrived  at 
by  silent  and  almost  imperceptible  degrees. 

To  suppose  that  education  can  be  completed  within  a 
given  number  of  years  and  lessons,  to  imagine  that  by 
the  aid  of  masters  on  the  one  side,  and  a  certain  amount 
of  daily  application  on  the  other,  a  man  or  woman  will 
become  as  finished  as  a  Dutch  painting,  or  the  minia 
tures  of  Sacci,  is  a  popular  fallacy,  which  must  be 
exploded  before  long. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom  are  often  confounded  in  con 
versation  and  in  books,  so,  too,  are  instruction  and  edu 
cation  ;  but  a  little  thought — a  very  little  will  serve  to 
expose  the  delusion.  In  advocating  a  large  and  liberal 
system  of  education,  we  are  not,  by  any  means,  disposed 
to  overlook  the  specialities  of  instruction.  For  many 
peculiar  spheres,  peculiar  knowledge  is  required.  A 
comprehensive  view  of  things,  and  the  power  of  extract 
ing  great  principles  from  a  number  of  small  details, 
betoken  a  well-cultivated  mind;  but  it  will  be  mani 
festly  defective  if  from  this  mental  height  it  cannot 


278  SPECIAL   EDUCATION. 

descend  to  the  daily  duties  and  solicitudes,  the  neces 
sary  acts  and  acquisitions,  of  every-day  existence. 

Cloud-land,  however  gorgeous,  is  not  the  home  for 
frail,  helpless  human  souls;  the  sphere  of  noble  and 
invigorating  thought,  the  fairy  land  of  poetry,  the 
seductive  regions  of  romance,  the  peaceful  haunts  cf 
contemplation,  must  only  be  resorted  to,  in  order  that 
from  them  we  may  gain  fresh  vigour  for  life's  common 
cares.  It  is  not  difficult  to  draw  a  picture  of  the  ac 
complished  young  lady,  who  is  admirably  fitted  for 
shining  in  society,  and  perfectly  unadapted  for  the 
trials  and  emergencies  of  domestic  life. 

But  it  is  possible — and  to  this  point  we  wish  to  draw 
special  attention — that  the  highly  accomplished,  but  ill- 
educated  woman  may  be  merely  on  a  level  with  one  of 
great  intellectual  endowments  and  culture  in  the  fulfil 
ment  of  her  domestic  duties.  Both  may  be  equally 
ignorant,  equally  without  training,  and  equally  incom 
petent  to  manage  a  household,  to  direct  servants,  to 
attend  either  to  the  physical  or  moral  education  of  their 
children.  The  one  has  spent  her  maiden-life  in  those 
pursuits  which  prove  attractive  in  society,  the  other  has 
passed  hers,  perhaps,  in  acquiring  information,  in  devel 
oping  her  mental  powers,  in  earnest  thought  on  great 
and  earnest  subjects — both,  from  very  different  causes, 
are  alike  deficient  in  that  special  knowledge  which  every 
woman  should  acquire. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out  in  what  this 
knowledge  consists.  A  few  suggestive  hints  and  in-- 
Btanccs  will,  however,  not  be  out  of  place. 

There  arc  few  women  who  do  not  loarn  how  to  train 


SPECIAL   EDUCATION.  279 

and  treat  their  servants,  by  means  of  a  good  deal  of 
awkward  and  unpleasant  experience.  There  are  some 
who  betray  their  incapacity,  and  testify  to  their  annoy 
ance  in  consequence  through  the  whole  of  their  house 
keeping  existence.  Every  fault  is  laid  upon  the  domes 
tics  ;  it  never  occurs  to  them  that  their  own  conduct  is 
defective,  that  they  expect  more  than  can  be  reasonably 
hoped  for,  or  by  their  uncertain  and  fitful  caprices 
forfeit  the  respect  and  irritate  the  temper  of  their 
servants. 

To  exercise  authority  without  abusing  it,  to  hold  the 
reins  with  a  firm  and  yet  a  gentle  hand,  and  to  win  the 
affections  of  her  servants  without  encouraging  famili 
arity,  is  an  art  which  all  ladies  should  learn,  not  only 
for  the  sake  of  their  own  comfort,  but  out  of  considera 
tion  to  those  who  serve  under  them. 

How  to  nurse  sick  children  is  another  problem  which 
the  most  loving  and  feminine  intuition  will  not  solve. 
It  needs  special  knowledge,  which  must  first  of  all  be 
gained  from  books  and  then  from  careful  practice. 

The  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  health,  of  the  means  by 
which  the  physical  powers  are  developed,  and  of  every 
thing  that  is  detrimental  to  the  frame,  however  sanc 
tioned  by  fashion  or  custom,  should  be  especially  urged 
upon  the  attention  of  women.  Where  health  is  con 
cerned,  women  are  frequently  more  inconsiderate  and 
careless  than  men.  They  fancy  they  may  commit  almost 
any  act  of  folly,  and  yet  escape  with  impunity.  Often 
a  life-long  illness  is  the  penalty  they  have  to  pay  for 
this  wilful  ignorance. 

Then,  again,  women  should  have  a  general  acquaint- 


280  FAULT-FINDING. 

anco  with  the  different  articles  of  food,  and  with  their 
different  prices ;  they  should  know  where  to  buy  with 
advantage ;  and  the  science  of  economy  is  one  in  which, 
without  any  hints  from  their  husbands,  they  should  be 
perfectly  at  home.  It  would  be  easy  to  add  a  whole 
string  of  requisitions  which  we  are  inclined  to  demand 
from  well-educated  woroen.  But  we  have  only  space  to 
repeat  our  assertion  that,  combined  with  that  general 
education  which  is  to  be  primarily  sought  after,  special 
knowledge  must  be  added  if,  as  wife  or  mother,  a  wo 
man  would  fill  the  post  assigned  her  with  dignity  and 
success. 


FAULT-FINDING. 

MR.  ABBOTT,  in  his  "Mother  at  Home,"  makes  these 
judicious  remarks  on  fault-finding.  They  are  com 
mended  to  the  consideration  of  all  who  have  the  govern 
ment  of  children  : — 

Do  not  be  continually  finding  fault  with  your  children. 
It  is  at  times  necessary  to  censure  and  to  punish.  But 
very  much  more  may  be  done  by  encouraging  children 
when  they  do  well.  Be  therefore  more  careful  to  ex 
press  your  approbation  of  good  conduct,  than  your  dis 
approbation  of  bad.  Nothing  can  more  discourage  a 
child  than  a  spirit  of  incessant  fault-finding,  on  the  p.irt 
of  its  parent.  And  hardly  anything  can  exert  a  more 
injurious  influence  upon  the  disposition  both  of  the 
parent  and  the  child.  There  are  two  great  motivea 


FAULT-FINDING.  281 

influencing  human  actions  ;  hope  and  fear.  Both  of 
these  are  at  times  necessary.  But  who  would  not  pre 
fer  to  have  her  child  influenced  to  good  conduct  by  the 
desire  of  pleasing,  rather  than  by  the  fear  of  offending  ? 
If  a  mother  never  expresses  her  gratification  when  her 
children  do  well,  and  is  always  censuring  them  when 
she  sees  anything  amiss,  they  are  discouraged  and  un 
happy.  They  feel  that  it  is  useless  to  try  to  please. 
Their  dispositions  become  hardened  and  soured  by  this 
ceaseless  fretting  ;  and  at  last,  finding  that,  whether 
they  do  well  or  ill,  they  are  equally  found  fault  with, 
they  relinquish  all  efforts  to  please,  and  become  heedless 
of  reproaches. 

But  let  a  mother  approve  of  her  child's  conduct 
whenever  she  can.  Let  her  show  that  his  good  be 
haviour  makes  her  sincerely  happy.  Let  her  reward 
him  for  his  efforts  to  please,  by  smiles  and  affection. 
In  this  way  she  will  cherish  in  her  child's  heart  some 
of  the  noblest  and  most  desirable  feelings  of  our  nature. 
She  will  cultivate  in  him  an  amiable  disposition  and  a 
cheerful  spirit.  Your  child  has  been,  during  the  day, 
very  pleasant  and  obedient.  Just  before  putting  him 
to  sleep  for  the  night,  you  take  his  hand  and  say,  "  My 
son,  you  have  been  a  very  good  boy  to-day.  It  makes 
me  very  happy  to  see  you  so  kind  and  obedient.  God 
loves  children  who  are  dutiful  to  their  parents,  and  ho 
promises  to  make  them  happy."  This  approbation  from 
his  mother  is,  to  him,  a  great  reward.  And  when,  with 
a  more  than  ordinarily  affectionate  tone,  you  say,  "Good 
night,  my  dear  son,"  he  leaves  the  room  with  his  little 
heart  full  of  feeling.  And  when  he  closes  his  eyes  for 


FAULT-FINDING. 

sleep,  he  is  happy,  and  resolves  that  he  will  always  try 
to  do  his  duty. 

Basil  Hall  thus  describes  the  effects  produced  on 
board  ship,  by  the  different  modes  of  government  adopted 
by  different  commanders. 

"  Whenever  one  of  these  commanding  officers,"  speak 
ing  of  a  fault-finding  captain,  "  came  on  board  the  ship, 
after  an  absence  of  a  day  or  two,  and  likewise  when  he 
made  his  periodical  round  of  the  decks  after  breakfast, 
his  constant  habit  was  to  cast  his  eye  about  him,  in 
order  to  discover  what  was  wrong  ;  to  detect  the  small 
est  thing  that  was  out  of  its  place  ;  in  a  word,  to  find  as 
many  grounds  for  censure  as  possible.  This  constituted, 
in  his  opinion,  the  best  preventive  to  neglect,  on  the 
part  of  those  under  his  command ;  and  he  acted  in  this 
trusty  way  on  principle.  The  attention  of  the  other 
officer,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  to  be  directed  chiefly 
to  those  points  which  he  could  approve  of.  For  instance, 
he  would  stop  as  he  went  along,  from  time  to  time,  and 
say  to  the  first  lieutenant,  'Now,  these  ropes  are  very 
nicely  arranged ;  this  mode  of  stowing  the  men's  bags 
and  mess  kids  is  just  as  I  wish  to  see  it ;'  while  the 
officer  first  described  would  not  only  pass  by  these  well- 
arranged  things,  which  had  cost  hours  of  labour  to  put 
in  order,  quite  unnoticed,  but  would  not  be  easy  till  his 
eye  had  caught  hold  of  some  casual  omission  which 
afforded  an  opening  for  disapprobation. 

"  One  of  these  captains  would  remark  to  the  first 
lieutenant,  as  he  walked  along,  '  How  white  and  clean 
you  have  got  the  decks  to-day !  I  think  you  must  have 
been  at  them  all  the  morning,  to  have  got  them  into 


FAULT-FINDING.  283 

finch  order.'  The  other,  in  similar  circumstances,  but 
eager  to  find  fault,  would  say,  even  if  the  decks  were 
as  white  and  clean  as  drifted  snow,  '  I  wish  you  would 
teach  these  sweepers  to  clear  away  that  bundle  of  shak 
ings  !'  pointing  to  a  bit  of  rope  yarn  not  half  an  inch 
long,  left  under  the  truck  of  a  gun.  It  seemed,  in  short, 
as  if  nothing  was  more  vexatious  to  one  of  these  officers, 
than  to  discover  things  so  correct  as  to  afford  him  no 
good  opportunity  for  finding  fault ;  while,  to  the  other, 
the  necessity  of  censuring  really  appeared  a  punishment 
to  himself. 

"  Under  the  one,  accordingly,  we  all  worked  with 
cheerfulness,  from  a  conviction  that  nothing  we  did  in  a 
proper  way  would  miss  approbation. 

"  But  our  duty  under  the  other,  being  performed  in 
fear,  seldom  went  on  with  much  spirit.  We  had  no 
personal  satisfaction  in  doing  these  things  correctly, 
from  the  certainty  of  getting  no  commendation. 

"  The  great  chance,  also,  of  being  censured,  even  in 
those  cases  where  we  had  laboured  most  industriously 
to  merit  approbation,  broke  the  spring  of  all  generous 
exertion,  and  by  teaching  us  to  anticipate  blame  as  a 
matter  of  course,  defeated  the  very  purpose  of  punish 
ment  when  it  fell  upon  us.  The  case  being  quite  hope 
less,  the  chastisement  seldom  conduced  either  to  the 
amendment  of  an  offender,  or  to  the  prevention  of 
offences.  But  what  seemed  the  oddest  thing  of  all  was, 
that  these  men  were  both  as  kind-hearted  as  could  be ; 
or,  if  there  were  any  difference,  the  fault-finder  was  the 
better-natured,  and,  in  matters  not  professional,  the 
more  indulgent  of  the  two. 


284  FAULT-FINDING. 

"  Thp  line  of  conduct  I  have  described  was  purely  a 
matter  of  official  system,  not  at  all  of  feeling.  Yet,  us 
it  then  appeared,  and  still  appears  to  me,  nothing  could 
be  more  completely  erroneous  than  the  snarling  method 
of  the  one,  or  more  decidedly  calculated  to  do  good 
than  the  approving  style  of  the  other.  It  has,  in  fact, 
always  appeared  to  me  an  absurdity,  to  make  any  real 
distinction  between  public  and  private  matters  in  these 
respects. 

"  Nor  is  there  the  smallest  reason  why  the  same  prin 
ciple  of  civility,  or  consideration,  or  by  whatever  name 
that  quality  be  called,  by  which  the  feelings  of  others 
are  consulted,  should  not  modify  professional  inter 
course  quite  as  much  as  it  does  that  of  the  freest  society, 
without  any  risk  that  the  requisite  strictness  of  disci 
pline  would  be  hurt  by  an  attention  to  good  manners. 

"  The  desire  of  discovering  that  things  are  right,  arid 
a  sincere  wish  to  express  our  approbation,  are  habits 
which,  in  almost  every  situation  in  life,  have  the  best 
possible  effects  in  practice. 

"  They  are  vastly  more  agreeable  certainly  to  the 
superior  himself,  whether  he  be  the  colonel  of  a  regi 
ment,  the  captain  of  a  ship,  or  the  head  of  a  house ; 
for  the  mere  act  of  approving  seldom  fails  to  put  a 
man's  thoughts  into  that  pleasant  train  which  predis 
poses  him  to  be  habitually  pleased,  and  this  frame  of 
mind  alone,  essentially  helps  the  propagation  of  a  simi 
lar  cheerfulness  among  all  those  who  are  about  him.  It 
requires,  indeed,  but  a  very  little  experience  of  soldiers 
or  sailors,  children,  servants,  or  any  other  kind  of  de 
pendants,  or  even  of  companions  and  superiors,  to  show 


FAULT-FINDING.  285 

that  this  good-humour,  on  the  part  of  those  whom  we 
wish  to  influence,  is  the  best  possible  coadjutor  to  our 
schemes  of  management,  whatever  these  may  be." 

The  judicious  bestowal  of  approbation  is  of  the  first 
importance  in  promoting  obedience,  and  in  cultivating 
in  the  bosom  of  your  child  affectionate  and  cheerful 
feelings.  Let  your  smiles  animate  your  boy's  heart, 
and  cheer  him  on  in  duty.  When  he  returns  from 
school,  with  his  clothes  clean  and  his  countenance  hap 
py,  reward  him  with  the  manifestation  of  a  mother's 
love.  This  will  be  the  strongest  incentive  to  neatness 
and  care.  An  English  gentleman  used  to  encourage 
his  little  children  to  early  rising,  by  calling  the  one  who 
first  made  her  appearance  in  the  parlour  in  the  morn 
ing,  Lark.  The  early  riser  was  addressed  by  that  name 
during  the  day.  This  slight  expression  of  parental 
approval  wras  found  sufficient  to  call  up  all  the  children 
to  the  early  enjoyment  of  the  morning  air.  A  child 
often  makes  a  very  great  effort  to  do  something  to  merit 
a  smile  from  its  mother.  And  most  bitter  tears  are 
frequently  shed  because  parents  dc  not  sufficiently 
sympathize  in  these  feelings. 


THE  PECUNIARY  INDEPENDENCE  OF  CHILDREN 

CHILDREN  should  be  early  taught  the  value  of  money. 
In  order  to  do  this,  they  should  be  allowed  the  free  use 
of  a  small  sum,  varying  according  to  their  age  and  the 
ability  of  their  parents.  This  should  never  be  given  to 
them,  but  they  should  be  allowed  some  means  of  earning 
it  for  themselves,  and  they  should  be  taught  to  keep  an 
accurate  account  of  whatever  they  spend.  If  this  prac 
tice  were  adopted,  there  would  be  fewer  spendthrift  sons 
and  daughters  to  squander  the  hard  earnings  of  their 
parents  in  useless  extravagance,  and  then  sink  into 
poverty  and  want.  They  should  early  learn  the  relation 
between  labour  and  its  results,  and  their  right  of  pro 
perty  be  held  as  sacred  as  that  of  their  seniors,  lest 
their  sense  of  justice  be  wounded  by  seeing  that  which 
they  have  regarded  as  their  own,  unceremoniously  trans 
ferred  to  another  without  their  consent.  Said  a  young 
man  of  my  acquaintance,  u  I  remember  the  first  dime  I 
ever  possessed.  It  was  given  me  by  a  friend  of  my 
father's,  who  was  visiting  at  our  house,  in  return  for 
attentions  bestowed  upon  his  horse.  It  was  a  proud 
and  happy  moment  for  me,  and  I  could  not  refrain  from 
showing  my  treasure  to  all  who  came  in  my  way.  My 
father,  after  looking  at  the  shining  coin  for  a  moment, 
deliberately  placed  it  in  Ms  own  pocket,  and  it  was  lost 
to  me  for  ever."  Is  it  strange  that  the  sons  of  such  a 
father  should  become  tenants  of  a  jail  before  they  arrive 
to  manhood !  Their  rights  have  been  outraged,  and 


EXCITING    IMAGINARY   FEARS.  287 

they  have  been  deliberately  taught  a  lesson  of  dis 
honesty.  Nor  are  instances  of  this  nature  uncommon. 
Parents  often,  perhaps  unconsciously,  violate  the  sense 
of  justice  implanted  in  the  breast  of  the  child.  A  pet 
lamb  is  given  them  to  train,  or  perhaps  a  calf  or  colt 
is  called  theirs,  but  when  the  animal  is  sold,  they  shed 
bitter  tears  over  what  is  to  them  a  loss  of  property.  As 
a  remedy  for  this,  call  nothing  theirs  which  is  not  so  in 
reality,  and  allow  every  child  some  means  of  earning  a 
trifle  which  shall  be  their  own,  and  you  will  cultivate  a 
spirit  of  manly  independence  friendly  to  the  growth  of 
every  virtue. 


EXCITING  IMAGINARY  FEARS. 

WE  extract  the  following  from  Mr.  Abbott's  "  Mother 
at  Home :" — 

There  is  something  very  remarkable  in  the  universal 
prevalence  of  superstition.  Hardly  an  individual  is  to 
be  found,  enlightened  or  unenlightened,  who  is  not,  in 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  under  the  influence  of  these 
irrational  fears.  There  is,  in  the  very  nature  of  man, 
a  strong  susceptibility  of  impression  upon  this  subject 
A  ghost  story  will  be  listened  to  with  an  intensity  of 
interest  which  hardly  anything  else  can  awaken.  Per 
sons  having  the  care  of  children,  not  unfrequently  tak« 
advantage  of  this,  and  endeavour  to  amuse  them  bv 
relating  these  stories,  or  to  govern  them  by  exciting 
their  fears.  It  surely  is  not  necessary  to  argue  the 


288  EXCITING   IMAGINARY    FEARS. 

impropriety  of  such  a  course.  Every  one  knows  how 
ruinous  must  be  the  result.  Few  parents,  howe'ver, 
practise  the  caution  which  is  necessary  to  prevent 
others  from  filling  the  minds  of  their  children  with 
superstition.  How  often  do  we  find  persons  who  retain 
through  life  the  influence  which  has  thus  been  exerted 
upon  them  in  childhood !  It  becomes  to  them  a  real 
calamity.  Much  watchfulness  is  required  to  preserve 
the  mind  from  such  injuries. 

There  is  a  mode  of  punishment,  not  unfrequcnt, 
which  is  very  reprehensible.  A  child  is  shut  up  in  the 
cellar,  or  in  a  dark  closet.  It  is  thus  led  to  associate 
ideas  of  terror  with  darkness.  This  effect  has  sometimes 
been  so  powerful,  that  hardly  any  motive  would  induce 
a  child  to  go  alone  into  a  dark  room.  And  sometimes 
even  they  fear,  after  they  have  retired  for  sleep,  to  be 
left  alone  without  a  light.  But  there  is  no  difficulty  in 
training  up  children  to  be  as  fearless  by  night  as  by 
day.  And  you  can  find  many  who  do  not  even  dream 
of  danger  in  going  anywhere  about  the  house  in  the 
darkest  night.  If  you  would  cultivate  this  state  of 
inind  in  your  children,  it  is  necessary  that  you  should 
preserve  them  from  ideas  of  supernatural  appearances, 
and  should  never  appeal  to  imaginary  fears.  Train  up 
your  children  to  be  virtuous  and  fearless.  Moral  courage 
is  one  of  the  surest  safeguards  of  virtue. 

An  English  writer  gives  a  most  appalling  account  of 
two  instances  in  which  fatal  consequences  attended  the 
strong  excitement  of  fear.  Says  he,  "  I  knew  in  Phila 
delphia,  as  fine,  and  as  sprightly,  and  as  intelligent  a 
child  as  ever  was  born,  made  an  idiot  for  life,  by  being, 


EXCITING   IMAGINARY   FEARS.  289 

when  about  three  years  old,  shut  into  a  dark  closet  by 
a  maid-servant,  in  order  to  terrify  it  into  silence.  The 
thoughtless  creature  first  menaced  it  with  sending  it  to 
*  the  bad  place  ;  and  at  last  to  reduce  it  to  silence,  put 
it  into  the  closet,  shut  the  door,  and  went  out  of  the 
room.  She  went  back  in  a  few  minutes,  and  found  the 
chrld  in  a  fit.  It  recovered  from  that,  but  was  for  life 
an  idiot.  When  the  parents,  who  had  been  out  two 
days  and  two  nights  on  a  visit  of  pleasure,  came  home, 
they  were  told  that  the  child  had  had  a  fit,  but  they 
were  not  told  the  cause.  The  girl,  however,  who  was  a 
neighbour's  daughter,  being  on  her  death-bed  about  ten 
years  afterward,  could  not  die  in  peace  without  sending 
for  the  mother  of  the  child  and  asking  forgiveness  of 
her.  Thousands  upon  thousands  of  human  beings  have 
been  deprived  of  their  senses  by  these  and  similar 
means. 

"  It  is  not  long  since  that  we  read,  in  the  newspapers, 
of  a  child  being  absolutely  killed — the  case  occurred  at 
Birmingham,  I  think — by  being  thus  frightened.  Th*1 
parents  had  gone  out  into  what  is  called  an  evening 
party.  The  servants,  naturally  enough,  had  their  party 
at  home  ;  and  the  mistress,  who,  by  some  unexpected 
a  ?cident,  had  been  brought  home  at  an  early  hour,  find 
ing  the  parlour  full  of  company,  ran  up  stairs  to  find 
her  child,  which  was  about  two  or  three  years  old.  She 
found  it  with  its  eyes  open,  but  fixed ;  touching  it,  she 
found  it  inanimate.  The  doctor  was  sent  for  in  vain : 
it  was  dead.  The  maid  affected  to  know  nothing  of  the 
cause ;  but  some  one  of  the  parties  assembled  disco« 

vered,  pinned  up  to  the  curtains  of  the  bed.  a  horrid 
19 


290  CHILD-TALK. 

figure,  made  up  partly  of  a  frightful  mask  !  This  as 
the  wretched  girl  confessed,  had  been  done  to  keep  cho 
child  quiet  while  she  was  with  her  company  below. 
When  one  reflects  on  the  anguish  that  the  poor  littlo 
thing  must  have  endured  before  the  life  was  quite  fright 
ened  out  of  it,  one  can  find  no  terms  sufficiently  strong 
to  express  the  abhorrence  due  to  the  perpetrator  of  this 
crime,  which  was,  in  fact,  a  cruel  murder ;  and,  if  it 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  the  law,  it  was  so,  because,  as 
in  the  case  of  parricide,  the  law  in  making  no  provision 
for  wickedness  so  unnatural,  has,  out  of  respect  to  hu 
man  nature,  supposed  such  crimes  to  be  impossible." 


CHILD-TALK. 

THE  editor  of  the  Musical  World  thus  vindicates  child- 
talk  : — 

Listen  to  the  mother,  talking  comfort  to  her  young 
babe.  The  comfort  is  surely  not  in  the  words — for  the 
child  understands  not  one  of  them.  It  lies,  of  course, 
then,  in  the  music  of  the  words.  It  is  the  mother's  tone 
of  voice — her  music — which  the  child  understands  arid 
receives  into  its  little  troubled  heart. 

I  was  lately  one  of  a  circle  of  friends  where  the  con 
versation  turned  upon  the  prevailing  manner  of  talking 
•with  very  young  children.  One  friend  insisted  strongly 
that  mothers  should  talk  common  sense  to  their  off 
spring  ;  that  it  was  just  as  intelligible,  and  in  far  better 


CHILD-TALK  291 

taste  than  nonsense ;    in  short,  that  all  this  so-called 
baby-talk  was  as  unnecessary  as  it  was  foolish. 

Now,  common  sense  is  a  very  excellent  thing;  but — 
let  us  not  overlook  the  occasional  uses  of  nonsense.  The 
truth  is  as  I  have  already  stated,  very  young  children 
understand  neither  sense  nor  nonsense.  They  only  feel. 
But  the  words  they  cannot  feel — not  comprehending 
them :  it  is  of  course,  then,  the  music  of  the  voice-  -if 
they  feel  at  all.  Music,  and  particularly  a  mother's 
music,  is  the  very  language  of  feeling ;  and  it  is  a 
"  mother-tongue"  perfectly  well  understood  by  the 
youngest  child. 

If  a  mother,  for  instance,  is  reproving  a  child,  be  the 
child  ever  so  young,  the  reproof  seems  perfectly  well 
understood ;  and  we  see  its  little  watchful  eye  fixed 
steadily  on  the  face  of  its  mother.  If  cheering  or  en 
livening,  or  frolicking,  the  child  seems  equally  to  under 
stand  what  is  meant.  And  here,  again,  it  is  the  tone  of 
cheerfulness,  and  the  tone  of  reproof,  and  the  tone  of 
playfulness  which  is  understood — not  the  word. 

Does  it  not  naturally  follow,  then,  that  the  talking  of 
plain  common  sense  to  such  young  children  would  be 
wholly  impracticable,  just  for  this  reason — that  we  should 
fall  inevitably  into  the  common~sense  tone  of  voice  ;  which 
is  the  even  and  less  musical  voice  of  ordinary  conversa 
tion — the  voice  of  the  intellect,  not  the  voice  of  the 
heart  ?  We  should  compose  no  pleasant  music  to  what 
we  were  saying.  Children,  therefore,  would  not  un 
derstand  us.  And  though  it  might  seem  to  us  sound 
common  sense  enough,  it  might  haply  appear  to  thu 


292  CHILD-TALK. 

children  great  nonsense — for  they  would  not  understand, 
nor  would  they  long  to  listen  to  us. 

Let  any  mother  try  the  experiment,  and  make  a  very 
sensible  remark  to  her  child,  Avith  the  sensible  tone  of 
voice  thereto  appertaining  ;  and  see  what  degree  of  suc 
cess  that  remark  will  have  with  her  child. 

We  contended,  therefore,  with  our  disputing  friends, 
that  a  mother's  talk  with  her  young  child  should  be  left, 
in  all  its  naturalness  and  loving  significance,  e'en  as  it 
is — without  the  modern  improvements.  The  motherly 
instinct  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  inevitable ;  and  in  no  case 
is  it  more  heautiful  and  truthful  than  is  shown  in  her 
using  a  language  with  her  child  which  it  will  understand 
— the  language  of  music.  The  words  are  nothing ;  and 
they  go  for  nothing.  They  serve  merely  as  a  means  of 
articulation  ;  and  this  is  all  the  mother  means  by  them. 
The  music  is  not  set  to  the  words ;  but  the  words  were 
simply  used  as  syllables  for  the  music.  And,  if  listen 
ing,  grown-up  persons  (for  whom,  albeit,  the  conversa 
tion  is  not  intended)  quarrel  with  the  language  of  a 
mother  in  sweet  communing  with  her  child,  let  them 
close  their  intellect  and  open  their  hearts  to  the  fre 
quently  irresistible  charm  of  such  motherly  melody — 
and  they  will  be  content. 


TEACH  YOUR  CHILDREN  FROM  THE  BIBLE. 

MRS.  M.  T.  RICHARDS  makes  these  good  suggestions 
to  mothers : — 

All  who  have  had  the  care  of  children  are  aware  that 
they  early  need  some  kind  of  mental  aliment.  Such 
knowledge  as  they  may  gain  by  the  senses  of  the  various 
objects  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  first  supplies  this 
necessity.  But  the  human  mind  ever  grasping  even  in 
earliest  childhood  soon  requires  more,  and  an  additional 
supply  is  furnished  by  the  act  of  vividly  conceiving  and 
revolving  the  various  ideas  and  images  it  has  previously 
treasured. 

Hence  arises  the  delight  of  play.  The  little  girl  so 
intently  engaged  with  her  doll,  is  experiencing  a  delight 
purely  mental.  She  moves  in  an  entirely  imaginary 
sphere,  a  little  world  of  her  own.  She  is  busily  con 
ceiving  and  assuming  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  the 
mother,  and  at  the  same  time  transferring  to  her  flaxen- 
haired  treasure,  the  various  peculiarities  of  childhood 
with  a  strength  and  vividness  which  to  her  mind  has  all 
the  charm  of  reality. 

The  desire  for  stories  which  every  mother  knows  is 
BO  universal  and  insatiable,  springs  from  the  same 
source.  The  pleasure  which  the  child  derives  from 
these  stories  lies  in  the  mental  activity  awakened  by 
vividly  conceiving  of  the  subjects  and  events  narrated 
to  him.  The  imaginary  "  Henry"  or  "  Willie,"  to  whose 


291     TEACH  YOUR  CHILDREN  FROM  THE  BIBLE. 

sayings  and  doings  he  has  so  often  been  an  eager  listen* 
er,  becomes  a  frequent  companion  of  his  thoughts,  the 
hero  of  a  drama,  whose  shifting  scenes  are  often  busily 
enacted  in  his  mind.  It  will  be  found  that  the  concep- 
tive  faculty  thus  exercised,  as  says  Isaac  Taylor,  is  one 
that  is  earliest  developed,  and  is  continually  at  work  in 
childhood.  With  this,  therefore,  lies  the  very  com 
mencement  of  the  process  of  intellectual  training;  and 
the  result  to  be  secured,  that  of  giving  scope  and  vigour 
to  its  action,  affects  most  materially  and  permanently 
the  whole  mental  character. 

It  is  the  work  of  the  mother  to  supply  the  requisite 
material  for  the  active  and  healthful  exercise  of  the 
conceptive  faculty.  Ifer  resources  for  this  are  abund 
ant  :  descriptions  of  scenes  or  events  which  her  child 
may  or  may  not  have  witnessed  ;  sketches,  even  the 
rudest  outlines  of  animals,  trees,  or  any  tangible  object, 
and  what  is  usually  most  called  for,  and  most  available, 
narrations  of  individual  characters,  known  as  "stories." 

Now  it  is  here  we  would  plead  the  excellence  of  the 
Bible,  as  affording  to  the  mother  an  unfailing  treasury, 
whence  she  may  draw  continually,  without  fear  of  ex 
hausting  her  resources.  It  is  true  that  the  materials 
for  stories  are  as  multiplied  and  various  as  the  scones 
and  incidents  of  every  day  life,  but  aside  from  all  these, 
and  above  them  all,  are  the  tales  which  may  be  told 
from  the  Bible.  There  is  in  them  a  life,  a  truthfulness, 
a  graphic  power  which  will  ever  remain  unequalled. 
They  pass  before  the  child's  mind  as  pictures  of  life 
and  beauty,  and  leave  their  impress  indelibly  engraven 
thereon.  Let  the  offering  up  of  Isaac  be  narrated,  and 


TEACH    YOUR   CHILDREN    FROM   THE   BIBLE.  295 

as  the  tale  advances,  the  flushed  cheek  and  mouth  half- 
parted  in  suspense,  the  clasped  hands  as  if  in  supplica 
tion,  as  the  fatal  blow  is  about  to  be  struck,  and  the 
joy  lighting  up  the  countenance  as  the  forbidding  voice 
is  heard  from  heaven,  strongly  testify  how  vividly  the 
\vhoJe  is  conceived,  how  life-like  is  the  scene  transpiring 
before  the  mental  vision.  Tell  of  the  shining  ladder, 
with  the  angels  of  God  ascending  and  descending  upon 
it.  Paint  the  scene  where  the  sleeping  babe  lay  cradled 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Nile.  Unroll  the  gorgeous  pano 
rama  of  the  history  of  Joseph.  Show  the  waters  of  the 
Red  Sea  forming  a  wall  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the 
left ;  the  manna ;  the  flowing  rock  ;  the  burning  quak 
ing  mount,  with  the  whole  multitude  retreating  in  terror 
afar  off,  and  Moses  "  drawing  near  unto  the  thick  dark 
ness  where  God  was,"  and  the  mind  of  the  child  is 
furnished  with  subjects  of  conception  and  thought  which 
could  be  derived  from  no  other  source.  The  marvel- 
lousness  of  the  Scripture  records  casts  its  wondrous 
spell  over  his  whole  being,  enchaining  every  faculty  to 
their  contemplation.  His  thoughts  become  accustomed 
to  stretch  beyond  the  line  of  his  outward  vision.  His 
conceptions  take  hold  on  things  untried  and  strange. 
And  he  is  thus  acquiring  a  breadth  'and  amplitude  of 
capacity  which  will  yet  stamp  its  decided  impress  upon 
his  future  mental  character. 

Let  the  mother  then  become  a  diligent  student  of  the 
Scriptures,  that  she  may  be  "  thoroughly  furnished" 
with  Bible  stories  for  the  instruction  of  her  child.  The 
advantage  she  may  thus  impart  to  him  will  be  three 
fold  :  it  will  induce  a  mental  activity ;  it  will  provide  a 


206  PUNISHMENT. 

select  supply  of  intellectual  furniture  as  it  were,  which 
the  mind  is  storing  for  constant  use ;  and  it  will  give 
the  renowned  characters  of  sacred  lore  a  hold  upon  his 
veneration  and  love,  which  the  lapse  of  years  shall 
rarely  be  able  to  displace.  All  this  may  be  done  for 
young  children,  but  as  they  advance  through  the  later 
periods  of  childhood  to  youth,  the  Bible  may  still  be 
the  mother's  grand  text-book  in  their  instruction. 


PUNISHMENT. 

THERE  is  probably  no  duty  which  the  mother  is  called 
to  perform,  so  trying  to  her  feelings,  as  the  infliction 
of  punishment.  And  many  a  one,  shrinking  from  the 
duty,  when  the  first  grave  offence  of  her  child  demanded 
it  at  her  hands,  has  multiplied  tenfold  its  subsequent 
necessity.  We  have  known  cases,  in  which  a  signal 
punishment  for  a  child's  first  falsehood,  has  been  suffi 
cient  for  a  lifetime,  and  a  character  of  beautiful  vera 
city  has  been  henceforth  established.  And  instances 
will  occur  to  every  one,  in  which  the  omission  of  this 
punishment  has  perpetuated  the  sin  of  lying,  till  it 
became  a  settled  habit,  destroying  all  confidence  in  the 
character  so  ruinously  neglected. 

It  will  greatly  increase  the  moral  power  of  punish 
ment  in  any  given  instance,  if  the  child  can  be  made  to 
feel  and  acknowledge  its  justice.  The  punishment  of 
David  for  causing  the  death  of  Uriah  presents  a  forcible 


PUNISHMENT.  297 

illustration  of  this  point.  By  the  parable  of  the  pro 
phet  his  sin  was  pictured  vividly  before  him,  in  its  real 
deformity  and  guilt.  He  looked  steadily  at  it,  unveiled 
by  the  distorting  mists  of  prejudice,  unprotected  by  the 
invulnerable  shield  of  selfishness  And  when  the  pro 
phet  fastened  the  king's  unqualified  condemnation  of  so 
aggravated  a  crime  upon  his  own  head,  he  had  not  a  word 
to  offer  in  extenuation  or  self-defence.  The  mother 
may  often  adopt  this  method  of  making  her  child  per 
ceive  his  guilt.  Let  him  look  at  his  sin  as  he  would 
regard  it  in  another,  and  she  thus  divests  it  of  many 
of  the  excuses  and  palliations  which  his  self-love  has 
thrown  around  it. 

Let  not  then  the  mother,  as  she  values  the  present 
and  future  welfare  of  her  child,  weakly  shrink  from 
this  painful  duty,  but  faithfully  meet  it  when  first  de 
manded,  and  she  may  be  assured  that  she  will  be  called 
but  seldom  to  its  discharge ;  and  if  she  be  tempted  to 
feel  that  one  deliberate  falsehood,  in  a  child  habitually 
truthful,  may  be  passed  by,  or  one  act  of  wilful  disobe 
dience,  in  a  child  usually  docile,  may  be  disregarded, 
let  her  remember  Moses,  who  by  his  usually  quiet  and 
forbearing  spirit,  gained  the  appellation  of  the  "  meek* 
est  man,"  yet  for  one  act  of  anger  was  forbidden  t« 
enter  the  land  of  promise. 


THOUGHTS  FOR  MOTHERS. 

Tue  influence  which  woman  exerts  is  silent  and  still, 
felt  raihcr  than  seen,  not  chaining  the  hands,  but  re 
straining  oar  actions  by  gliding  into  the  heart. 

Young  children  often  do  wrong  merely  from  the  im 
maturity  of  their  reason,  or  from  a  mistaken  principle ; 
and  when  this  is  the  case,  they  should  be  tenderly  re 
proved,  and  patiently  shown  their  error. 

The  real  object  of  education  is  to  give  children  re 
sources  that  will  endure  as  long  as  life  endures  ;  habits 
that  will  ameliorate,  not  destroy ;  occupations  that  will 
render  sickness  tolerable,  solitude  pleasant,  age  venera 
ble,  life  more  dignified  and  useful,  and  death  less  ter 
rible. 

Do  all  in  your  power  to  teach  your  children  self- 
government.  If  a  child  is  passionate,  teach  him  by 
gentle  and  patient  means  to  curb  his  temper.  If  he  is 
greedy,  cultivate  liberality  in  him.  If  he  is  selfish,  pro 
mote  generosity.  If  he  is  sulky,  charm  him  out  of  it, 
by  encouraging  frank  good-humour.  If  he  is  indolent, 
accustom  him  to  exertion,  and  train  him  so  as  to  per 
form  even  onerous  duties  with  alacrity.  If  pride  comes 
in  to  make  his  obedience  reluctant,  subdue  him,  either 
by  counsel  or  discipline.  In  short,  give  your  children 
the  habit  of  overcoming  their  besetting  sins. 


HEALTH  OF  CHILDREN. 

MORE  than  half  the  diseases  from  which  children 
•suffer,  are  caused  by  the  injudicious  treatment  they 
receive  at  the  hands  of  those  who  can  have  no  excuse 
for  their  ignorance.  The  influence  of  the  brain  on  the 
digestive  organs  is  direct.  During  childhood,  when  the 
brain  is,  in  common  with  other  organs,  in  a  state  of 
great  activity  and  rapid  development,  the  proper  arrange 
ment  of  diet  is  of  the  greatest  importance.  Cheerful 
activity,  cleanliness,  dry  pure  air,  adequate  clothing, 
and  a  suitable  regimen,  are  indispensable  promoters  of 
health.  Horses  and  cattle  are  carefully  fed  with  the 
food  that  suits  them  best ;  and  by  humane  people  greater 
care  is  bestowed  upon  them  than  the  majority  of  parents 
give  to  their  children.  Some  may  think  we  are  colour 
ing  too  highly  this  state  of  things  ;  that  all  right-minded 
parents  love  their  children  too  much  willingly  to  injure 
them.  Still  we  may  kill  them  by  misguided  kindness. 
Look  into  society,  as  it  is  at  present  constituted,  and 
your  own  knowledge  will  furnish  you  with  instances  of 
grievous  wrong  done  to  children  by  parents  violating 
the  physical  laws  of  their  being.  We  know  many  such  ; 
and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  it,  for  such  is  our  convic 
tion,  that  if  their  children  be  not  removed  when  young 
from  the  deteriorating  example  and  pernicious  training 
of  their  parents,  they  will  in  all  probability  become 
gluttons  and  drunkards.  High-seasoned  and  unwhole 
some  food  is  given  in  such  large  quantities,  and  at  such 


800  HEALTH   OF   CHILDREN. 

irregular  times,  that  unnatural  appetites  are  created, 
and  digestion  impaired.  Stimulating  and  poisonous  sub 
stances  are  administered  to  them  to  invigorate  their  sys 
tems,  which  have  quite  the  contrary  effect,  and  lay  the 
foundation  for  all  kinds  of  maladies  in  future  years. 
Some  mothers  so  stuff  their  children  the  -whole  year 
round  with  unwholesome,  exciting,  and  stimulating  meats 
and  drinks,  that  they  become  complete  gourmands,  and 
their  whole  thoughts  are  occupied  with  what  they  shall 
eat,  what  they  shall  drink,  and  wherewithal  they  shall 
be  clothed.  If  parents  would  give  their  children  good, 
wholesome,  nourishing  food,  their  only  drink  water,  and 
let  strict  regularity  and  punctuality  be  observed  in  re 
gard  to  their  times  of  eating,  a  gradual  change  for  the 
better  would  distinctly  mark  the  rising  generation ;  for 
it  is  most  certain  that  parents  cannot  be  too  particular 
about  the  dietetic  habits  of  their  children.  Their  hap 
piness  here  and  hereafter  greatly  depend  upon  the  right 
physiological  training  or  treatment  given  them  in  early 
life.  And  yet  how  many  mothers  make  their  table  a 
snare  to  their  offspring  by  pampering  their  appetites, 
and  loading  their  stomachs  with  improper  food  ! 


THE    END. 


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